


Umber Snow

by supersemantic



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU where Seteth is the kid and Flayn is the parent, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Not Edeleth, Unsubtle minor ships, Yes you read that right, i actually have a plan for cindered shadows kind of, it's seteth and edelgard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersemantic/pseuds/supersemantic
Summary: A thousand years after the battle that claimed his father's life and forced him into a regenerative coma, Seteth enrolls in the Officer's Academy at Garreg Mach monastery, over the objections of his mother Flayn, the monastery's chief physician. For him, it's a chance to stretch his wings, sharpen his skills, and learn what's become of the world while he slept. And yet, fate conspires to make his brief time at Garreg Mach an eventful one, as a famous mercenary is named to lead his house. Events spiral more and more out of control, and Seteth soon finds himself embroiled in mystery, intrigue, and war. Can he learn how to navigate the strange world he finds himself in before things fall apart again?
Relationships: Flayn/My Unit | Byleth, Seteth/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	1. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth wakes up under his uncle Macuil's care, meets back up with his mother Flayn, and arrives at Garreg Mach, and a momentous decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't feel a thing  
> And I stopped remembering  
> The days are just like moments turned to hours  
> Mother used to say  
> If you want, you'll find a way  
> But mother never danced through fire showers  
> \- Rain, the Seatbelts

**\- ??? -**

He found himself in a small group of young humans, armed and armored. Somehow, they were within a place he recognized as the Holy Tomb, though he was unsure _how_ he knew that. Neither he nor his companions were in the middle of doing anything, either - they simply stood around at the bottom of a steep set of stairs, waiting for something. From their vantage point at the bottom, he heard a familiar voice, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. Judging from the scent of despair that began to waft down from on high, it wasn't going as the speaker had wanted, whatever _it_ was. Suddenly, new smells wafted in - iron, blood, and… roast beef? Wet fur? He could not place the scent, and whirled around to try to locate its source. 

A great many footsteps approached, and some of the humans stepped away from his group - a tall, black-haired man and a short, white-haired woman. The two of them strode off confidently, making for the other, larger group of armed humans approaching them. The other group wore black armor with the insignia of a double-headed eagle. Once the white-haired woman reached them, she turned around, and began leading the black-armored group towards him, and towards the stairs. She caught his eye, and her face twisted up in pain. She had lilac eyes… How odd. The woman looked downwards, letting her shoulders droop, and sighed deeply. Then, she found her conviction again, and raised her voice, shouting up towards the voice he had heard earlier: "Stop right there!"

Two sets of feet began descending the stairs. One was a woman he felt he should recognize, and the other, a man, was a complete stranger to him. Both had green hair. The woman’s face was twisted up in rage and fury, but there was no anger in her companion’s eyes. With every step she took, the woman became more and more apoplectic. Her pupils wavered, as if on the verge of turning into slits - she was dangerously close to the edge at the prospect of the Holy Tomb being invaded.

Beside him, the young humans expressed shock and dismay at the sight of the black-clad army. A mousey little thing with purple hair was the first one of them to speak up, directing a question at the woman with white hair. "Edelgard... What are you doing?"

For some reason, this Edelgard woman refused to meet his gaze. He felt a tightness in his chest. He held his breath. She spoke.

"I have come here to begin anew. To reforge this world. I am--”

 _Flames raged around him, and blood leaked from his side. He pressed a hand to his wound, cursing as he felt the depth. Blaiddyd was around here somewhere, and he had to help, had to find Father before_ \--

The black-haired man next to Edelgard began to speak, but he couldn't hear him as an anguished cry left his lips. He sank to the floor. Words poured out of him, but his mind was too far away to understand what he was saying.

 _Father was dueling Blaiddyd alone, his lance crashing against the twisted mockery of his own kin’s bones and heart. He had to help, had to cut his way across to reach him before_ \--

Heat burned in his chest, and he toppled forward onto his hands, heaving.

Though he could not see her face, he could smell something from the white-haired woman... regret? Sorrow? Pain? 

She spoke, her voice losing the edge it had held before. "I am sorry. It was cruel of me to allow what passed between us to happen. And in another life, perhaps... Perhaps things would not have needed to take this course. But I work for the good of all Fodlan. I am so, so sorry, my belo..." She sighed. "No. I have no right to that word now. But I cannot allow anything to hold me back from this, from what I was born to do, not even you."

Darkness swallowed him.

  
  


**\- 27th of the Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1178 -**

A cold wind swept through the temple, making unearthly sounds among the ruined stonework. The crumbling walls provided some protection from the sands and the biting desert winds, but it could do little against the sun, which had already risen and was making its way steadily upwards. Grand weapons from a bygone era lay scattered here and there, but even in this dilapidated temple, there was no risk of them being stolen. Not with so vigilant a guardian as the Wind Caller. He stretched his neck, clearly feeling the merciless sun begin to beat down upon him. It was still early in the day, but in the desolation of the Sreng desert, there was no hiding from the sun. Or there wouldn’t be, save for an intact section of the temple that he had worked tirelessly to maintain. For nearly thirty years it had stood as if new, protecting one corner of the ruins from sun, wind, and sand alike… Protecting more than that, too.

The Wind Caller stood, heaving out a weary sigh. He spread his wings, preparing to take off - it was time, once again, to hunt. And yet… Something nagged at his mind, something that forced him to wait. He looked around his temple, unsure of himself. Then, a sound reached him that would have made his heart skip a beat, were it able to beat in the first place. From the corner, from the resting place he and the Light Weaver had prepared several decades ago, a noise reached him at the edge of audibility. It was, unmistakably, _speech_. He rushed forward, snaking his head further ahead of him, until he caught sight of his dear nephew, returning at last. The Wind Caller pulled back as he blinked away tears - he would _not_ let The Indomitable’s first memories of his return include his uncle in tears, joy or not.

“Cichol… You awaken at last.”

\---

The first thing he noticed was that wherever he was was very soft. He groaned - his entire body ached, and he was beyond grateful for whoever had gotten him into bed. Mother likely had done it, the inconsolable worrier that she was. He tried to get his bearings for a moment, and turned slowly, swinging his legs out over the edge of the bed he found himself in. Mother would be in to scold him soon, of course, and then Father would laugh, and offer to show him more lance techniques. It was a song and dance that they had all participated in hundreds of times by now. Young though he was, it bothered him that Mother treated him like a child. He was nearly one hundred and sixty, for stars’ sake! He was…

Wait. His eyes flickered open. This was not his parents’ house. He blinked, slowly, his eyes adjusting to the muted brown of the weathered stonework around him. This place didn’t look like _anywhere_ in Enbarr, much less his bedroom. What were Mother and Fath… Father. His chest filled with ice as his mind began to swim. 

_“Father! NO! You have to get up! You can’t-- I can’t fight him without you! F-Father, please! Get up! Get_ **_up_** _!” Harsh laughter echoed in his ears, and he pushed himself upwards, ignoring the spurt of blood that that effort pushed from his wound_ \--

His face and throat burned. His father wasn’t here… He had… But no, that couldn’t be true, not with Mother being the caliber of healer she was. There was no way; he just had to find her, and then everything would be explained. Father had taken worse injuries before. He couldn’t be…

“Father? Mother? Where are you?”

His voice was hoarse from disuse, and it occurred to him very suddenly that he was absolutely parched, not to mention famished. But that could wait, he had a clear objective, and he--

“Cichol… You awaken at last.”

That voice was _decidedly_ not Mother’s, but it wasn’t Father either. Stranger still, the timbre of it was odd. It sounded like-- Suddenly, thought was driven out of his mind, as a beaked head poked its way around the stonework. “...Uncle Macuil? What are you doing here?” There was a flash of green light, and his uncle came running around the corner in human form. “Cichol! It is good to see you again, boy. Are you… feeling well?” He blinked, staring at his uncle. His hair was as unkempt as ever, hanging loose and wild all around his face and down his back. He wore faded blue robes, embroidered with gold, and had a jagged sword strapped to his hip - a levin sword, he remembered. His face was a good deal leaner than it should have been, and numerous scars adorned it that he could not place.

“I… Yes? Should I not be? Also, I did ask you a question first, Uncle. What are you doing here?” He paused briefly, then added “Also, where _is_ here? This doesn’t look like Enbarr…” Tears filled his uncle’s eyes, and he bowed his head. He looked his age all of a sudden, which was worrisome. “I do not believe that I am the one best suited to tell you this, but… There is no one else, so it falls to me. Cichol… Do you remember nothing from immediately before you went to sleep?” Cichol paused, unsure of himself. A pained expression broke onto his face. “I… We were fighting at Gronder Field, and I... “ He swallowed hard. “Father was injured. H-he wouldn’t get up, so I kept fighting Blaiddyd without him. Then it… I don’t remember what happened after that. Where is he, Uncle? I assume Mother patched him up and gave him a good scolding, but all the same I’d like to see him. Both of them, really…”

His uncle sighed deeply. “I… Cichol… Your mother is… away. She was called to assist Seiros. We will, of course, contact her soon, but… Your father…” Macuil refused to meet his gaze. “Balor… Balor fell in battle. Cethleann was unable to save him. I am sorry…”

Cichol’s world broke apart.

  
  


**\- 9th of the Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1178 -**

Cichol waited nervously next to his uncle. The two of them were seated in a small roadside chapel. An odd mixture of strange imagery and familiar iconography swirled around him - in particular, he spotted his own Crest, as well as those of Seiros, Macuil, and Indech, and his mother, Cethleann. According to Macuil, who had grown steadily quieter the closer they had gotten to human-inhabited lands, Aunt Seiros had used her position of power after the end of the war, which he had missed by some _fifty years_ after he fell asleep, to establish a religion worshipping Grandmother. Since then, somehow, Cichol had managed to sleep for over a thousand years, and new human kingdoms had sprung up, with Seiros and her religion to guide them. Something about the whole thing struck him as odd, though. Nowhere was iconography of Grandmother’s Crest; it was all Seiros and the rest of them. And unless he was very mistaken, the priest who had welcomed them inside to warm themselves up from the howling blizzards of northern Fodlan had called it the Church of _Seiros_ , not the Church of Sothis. Macuil refused to speak more about it on the way, and now that they were here, it hardly seemed like the time to question the fundamental tenets of the religion their shelter was dedicated to.

These thoughts were pushed from his mind immediately as the chapel doors opened. Standing framed against the whiteness outside was another green-haired figure. Her hair, for it was undoubtedly a woman, hung in two tight curls on either side of her face, and billowed out behind them in waves down her back. She wore a simple navy dress, with a small shawl over her shoulders that was, yet again, emblazoned with Seiros’ crest. Gold accents on her dress and in her hair completed the look. She was a little thinner in the face than when he had last laid eyes on her, and looked _far_ more world-weary, but it was absolutely unmistakable. Before him stood his mother, Cethleann.

He jumped to his feet, and started to exclaim “Mother!”, but a rough hand clamped over his mouth before he got more out than “Mo--”. His uncle had moved incredibly fast, and stopped him from shouting out at her for some reason. He would have been annoyed had Cethleann not dashed towards the two of them with a wild look in her eyes. As soon as she got within range, she launched herself at Cichol, wrapping him in the tightest embrace he’d ever felt. Her shoulders began to shake, and a damp warmth bled through the left shoulder of his tunic. Mother was crying... and damn it all, now _he_ was starting up as well. None of them said anything for a while as Cichol and Cethleann wept in each other's arms, Macuil standing awkwardly behind them.

After a few minutes, Cethleann let out a shaky breath, and looked over towards the priest, who had come around to check on them. Finding her voice, she asked him “I’m ever so sorry to impose, but, do you have a private room here? The three of us have much to discuss.” The priest bowed low, and responded “But of course. Anything for the Maiden of Miracles! Right this way, please.” He smiled at them, and led them to a side chamber off the main chapel. It seemed as though it was the priest’s personal quarters, which made Cichol feel a little awkward, but there were more important things to worry about. As the door clicked shut, leaving the three Nabateans alone with one another, Macuil let out a low chuckle.

“‘The Maiden of Miracles’? Not even thirty years and you’ve _already_ gone and made a name for yourself, eh Cethleann?” His mother blushed, and shook her head. “It was certainly not my intention! But, unfortunately, there are often many wounded at Garreg Mach, and once you save enough lives, people begin to remember you.” She sighed, before turning her attention back to Cichol.

“But, enough about me. My son! Oh, my son… How my heart _sings_ to see you again! I was so worried… I apologize for leaving you behind. Seiros was _insistent_ , and I owed her from the war, even still. It pains me so to not have been there for you when you woke.” She clung onto his arm as if he were going to disappear, but Cichol could not begrudge her the contact. Though he would _never_ admit it while his uncle was in earshot, waking up without her to comfort him had been hard. He loved his uncle, of course, but Macuil was prickly at the best of times, and he _had_ felt fairly overwhelmed by it all.

“Mother… I… Uncle has told me some of what happened while I was asleep, but… Have I _truly_ slept for… for a thousand _years_? Are any of our friends still alive? What of Aldbern and Godwine?” 

Cethleann sighed mournfully. “I… I’m sorry, my dear Cichol. Human lives are so short compared to ours. Both Aldbern and Godwine have long since passed, though both did live to see our victory over Nemesis. Those two actually became key parts of Wilhelm’s fledgling Empire, and their descendants still rule over territory in southern Fodlan. In fact, almost all of our old friends’ progeny survive them, and in many cases yet thrive. Aldbern’s clan rules over territory along the eastern coast as the Aegir family, and your Crest dwells in many of their children. The same can be said for Godwine, whose children are now the Hevring family of the middling mountains upon the sea. Many of their descendants have been like echoes of them… Though it is hardly the same, I grant you.”

Macuil growled gutturally, cursing at Wilhelm under his breath in the ancient tongue. Cethleann smacked his arm, hissing out “ _Macuil!_ Mind your language!” Cichol laughed - for one blissful moment it was like he was back in time. Then, reality settled back in. He sighed, wearily. “So… What happens now, Mother? The world is so different these days… I would not even know where to begin if I had to make my way in it.” She looked at him for a moment, lost for words, then chuckled and shook her head. “Oh Cichol, is it not obvious? You shall return to Garreg Mach with me! That place has become a sanctuary for our family, even if the religion Seiros has created can be a bit…” She trailed off, looking for a gentle way to express her true thoughts and coming up empty.

“In any event, Seiros will take good care of you, as she has myself and Indech.” Cichol blinked - Uncle Indech was at this Garreg Mach? This was evidently news to Macuil, too, as he stared open-mouthed at Cethleann. “You mean to say that Seiros finally got him to leave his lake? Unbelievable…” She nodded her head. “Indeed. These days, he goes by another name, though - we all do, actually. Seiros is currently called ‘Rhea’, and she is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. Indech is called ‘Morus’, and he serves as her advisor and right hand. I myself am called ‘Flayn’ by the people of the world today… Hmm. We shall need a name for you, as well!” She propped her chin against her fist, and began to hum softly.

Macuil, meanwhile, laughed. “Of course Indech would pick that name. For all Mother talked about Uncle Moro, who _else_ would he have named himself after…” Cethleann nodded, smiling, then suddenly snapped her fingers. “I have it! We shall call you ‘Seteth’. What do you think?” She looked at him expectantly, and he shifted around a little, nervously. “Well… I suppose, if you think it fitting… Seteth is fine by me.”

  
  


**\- 11th of the Guardian Moon, Imperial Year 1178 -**

Mother’s pegasus (or _falicorn_ if one were going to be specific, but no one seemed to care about proper terms anymore, so hang it) was remarkably well-behaved given that it had had a man on its back for the last two days. He had never understood why all it took was wings to make a perfectly normal horse suddenly hate men, but evidently hers was either an exception to the usual standards of the species, or incredibly well-trained. With Mother, it could honestly be either. He sighed, and tried to catch a little more sleep as they flew. Cold had never bothered any of their kind, so high altitude flights were nothing to him, and it was still quite early... The wingbeats from the pegasus were gentle, and he _almost_ made it to sleep before Mother, who had insisted on him calling her by her false name of Flayn even while they were alone together, shouted excitedly.

He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying over the wind whipping past his ears, but he followed her gaze, and his stomach dropped out from under him. A _massive_ series of buildings, towers, and walls was nestled among the peaks of the Oghma Mountains. He let his jaw hang open wide. Mother turned back to him, smiling at the look on his face. She shouted to be heard over the wind. “There it is! Garreg Mach monastery! I mentioned that your uncle Timotheos was its architect, did I not? I believe it took him about a hundred years to complete it. That was in the one hundred and eighty-fifth year of the Imperial calendar!”

He nodded, his mind still boggling at the sheer size of the compound. As they grew closer, he saw a sizable town nestled below the monastery’s inner walls, and another set of walls surrounded the town and a large swath of land on all sides. There was forest on the north-eastern side, and the land to the west had a reddish tint to it. Off in that direction was Zanado, the ancient home of their people… Was that why Aunt Seiros had decided to have her religion’s main temple built here?

When they drew within the bounds of the outer walls, they found themselves surrounded by knights in shining white armor. Several were on pegasi of their own, while others rode atop wyverns. Upon spotting his mother, one of the knights gave her a cheery salute, and several of them broke off. Three of the pegasus knights stayed with them, flying in formation all the way to the monastery. They landed in a long run next to a large building, and dismounted. Stablehands rushed in out of nowhere, leading the pegasi away - perhaps this was where the monastery housed its mounts? As if she could read his thoughts, Cethleann pointed towards the large building that the pegasi were being herded towards. “That is the pegasus stable. Between the students of the Officer’s Academy and the Knights of Seiros, there are a great many pegasi to care for, so they’ve been separated out from their earth-bound brothers. The regular stables are on the other side of the Knight’s Hall, and the wyvern aviary is housed in that large tower back there.” She pointed off towards the south, and he nodded.

“Come along, Seteth! We must find the Archbishop soon! It is Saint Seiros day, after all - what an auspicious time to join us at the monastery.” Cichol groaned, still unused to this odd name. “Seteth” wasn’t a terrible name, but it didn’t feel like _his_ name. Even so, if using that name was the price for being able to be with his mother again, it was worth it.

The two of them swept off north and west, heading around another building, which he learned was the monastery’s treasury. Ahead of them lay a giant chasm, and beyond that, linked to the monastery by a massive stone bridge, was a grand cathedral. There was a crowd milling across the bridge, which made Mother’s face light up. “Oh, wonderful! We are still early. That means we can catch Rhea before the ceremony begins.” She grabbed his hand, dragging him towards the bridge, and soon he found himself in a crowd of humans. It felt… Odd. He was so used to humans looking at him reverently, staring at his ears, and offering him thanks for services he hardly thought were worth such. Mother had explained on the flight to the monastery that Aunt Seiros had used human reverence for their remaining family to create a mythos for her church - he in particular was remembered as Saint Cichol, the fiery and passionate son of Saint Cethleann. His uncles were now Saints Indech and Macuil, and together they made the Four Saints, with Saint Seiros at their head. Feast days for the Saints, like the one today, had been established on their birthdays - a kind of joke, he assumed.

He frowned. Because of Aunt Seiros, he could no longer call Mother “Mother” unless they were completely alone, with no chance of being overheard. Instead, he was now Seteth, Flayn’s younger brother who had been staying with relatives until he was old enough to join them at the monastery. It was annoying, and felt more than a little manipulative towards the human believers… Still, he couldn’t exactly blame her - he had been asleep during the time when she was establishing all of this, and he couldn’t say that he would have been able to come up with something better in her place. Perhaps this was for the best.

The two of them finally reached the other end of the bridge, and pushed forward into the cathedral itself. The faithful were taking their places, either sitting on the pews in the back half of the cathedral, or standing with heads bowed in the front half. His eyes swept around, taking in the magnificent architecture, sculptures, and ambiance. Above him on the ceiling was a large fresco. It displayed an incredibly beautiful woman clad in white, with huge, feathered wings like a swan’s - with a jolt, he realized that that must be an artist’s attempt to represent Grandmother. Beneath her were five dragons, and his stomach lurched as he recognized himself, a reddish bestial dragon known as The Indomitable, as well as his mother’s graceful blue form, the Light Weaver, Uncle Macuil’s golden griffon-like form, the Wind Caller, and Uncle Indech’s dark grey turtle-like form, The Immovable. In the center was Aunt Seiros, the pure-white Immaculate One. Below them were figures in hooded robes, though the one in the middle of all of them bore Aunt Seiros’ flamberge… That must make her Saint Seiros, and the two on either side of her the Four Saints. Hooded figures stretched on at either side of them, and below them was a crowd of human worshippers. Along the outside of the fresco were a number of Crests. Several were faded or damaged, but he spotted his own and his mother’s. Oddly, his father’s Crest was not present.

He found himself being ushered into a small room off to the side of the cathedral itself, a bit annoyed at being torn away from the strange fresco. His annoyance soon turned to embarrassment, as he looked up to stare at a golden statue of _himself_ , holding up the lance Uncle Macuil had made for him during the war. Glancing around, he found golden statues of his mother and both uncles, as well. He looked questioningly at his mother, but before she could speak, the door to the little room slammed shut. At the door stood Seiros, with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, _Cichol_ … It is so wonderful to see you again, my dearest nephew.” She threw him into another tight embrace - what was it with his family and bone-crushing hugs? After a while, she relented, and turned to look at his mother. “Cethleann, this is the best birthday present you could ever have gotten me. Thank you.” Cethleann smiled at her still-teary sister. “Oh, I more feel as though it is a present for me, dear sister, but I figured you would be very upset with me if you didn’t get to see him before all of your duties start.” The two women exchanged a laugh and hugged. Her appearance was odd - rather than the armor and winged headpiece she had worn during the war, she now wore a white dress reminiscent of Grandmother’s in the fresco on the cathedral ceiling, but over it she had some sort of half-sized cloak. It was navy, with gold patterns on it, and ended in a ruffle. In her hair, she had an odd golden headdress. Symbols were carved into it that he did not recognize, and gleaming gemstones were set into it as well. Tassels hung from it, framing her head in a strange way. She had a thin, gleaming breastplate hung over the brooch holding her half-cloak together, and fabric trailed down behind it. She looked… ethereal. It was the only word Cichol knew that fit, and yet something about it all seemed so _off_ from the Seiros he had known before.

“How wonderful, this stolen moment of time has been. However, my duties _do_ call me. If you would, Ce-- Flayn, please take young… er…” Seiros looked questioningly at him. “Ah, right, my apologies, Aunt Seir-- er, Rhea. My new name is Seteth.” She smiled as she internalized the name. “Well then. Flayn, please guide young Seteth to my solar. I imagine Morus will be hiding there, as he does on every feast day.” She chuckled, and shook her head fondly. “I will join the three of you once my responsibilities are over here.” She paused, looking thoughtful, then turned her attention to him again. “I know that you likely have many questions, dear child. I would be happy to answer any that I can, and teach you the history of Fodlan as it is now. Please, wait for me.” Excusing herself, she stepped back out of the doors to the cathedral and approached a grand altar at the head of the throngs of humans. 

Cethleann led him back across the bridge, into a building that she explained was Garreg Mach’s administrative building. Before him was a massive reception hall, but they turned away from it, moving instead up a staircase. On the second floor, she explained, were offices for the Officer’s Academy’s professors, the captain of the Knights of Seiros, and the advisor to the archbishop, as well as an infirmary (which served as _her_ office). To the east were the room where the Church’s cardinals would meet to conduct business, and a small common room. To the west was the main library for the monastery. Lastly, the archbishop’s audience chamber was behind the grand double doors immediately visible when one reached the second floor landing, and her office was located just off of that room. Finally, they reached the third floor.

On the third floor were Cethleann’s, Aunt Seiros’, and Uncle Indech’s quarters, as well as a small solar. They went into the cozy room, passing by several doors that Cethleann did not mention the purpose of. Inside the solar, there was a long table with ten light armchairs in a pale cream color, each of which looked quite luxurious in their own right. The wood was equally light and cheerful in color, and a thick, plush carpet had been laid down in the whole room save for in front of the large fireplace. An ornate marble mantle had been crafted around it, and another, heavier armchair was situated to face it. Aunt Seiros’ flamberge hung above the mantle, gleaming as though it had been forged yesterday. Bookshelves, stuffed to bursting with all manner of material, lined the walls near the fireplace, while pieces of what he assumed was religious art lined the rest of the walls, including artists’ renditions of each of the Four Saints. It embarrassed him to see those, so he turned his attention elsewhere, to the grand window on the far wall. Standing there, his brow knit with worry, was Uncle Indech.

He turned as he heard the door click shut, and startled. “Oh… Oh my goodness. Cichol? I-It really is you, isn’t it?” Indech in human form was a stocky man, though he’d traded his close-cropped hair from the war for longer tresses that hid his ears. He was likely still quite muscular underneath the navy and gold robes he now wore, but Cichol couldn’t see his bow anywhere around. His eyes flickered over to the flamberge above the mantle again - perhaps being at peace meant that they no longer needed to bear arms everywhere? How odd to think about. 

As Indech wrapped him in another tight hug, Cichol confirmed that his uncle still retained his former strength. Indech had always been a hugger for as long as Cichol had been alive, but there was something _different_ in this one. It felt desperate, though Cichol could not exactly blame him. Having been gone for so long only to return now, it must feel like they had gotten him back from the dead. Indech finally released him, only to look him up and down thoroughly. He hummed, then spoke, still examining Cichol for something. “I trust you already gave him what examinations you could, Cethleann?” She nodded. “There have been no obvious ill effects to his long time spent in slumber, but… There are certain things that we were unable to test while on the road. At the very least, I believe that his time in the restorative slumber has left him whole.” Indech sighed in relief. “Well, that’s excellent!” He looked Cichol in the eye now, finally relaxing a little. “When Macuil sent us word that you’d awakened, I was so _worried_. I am glad you’re safe, nephew.”

Cichol smiled. “I am as well. And glad to be here with you, and Mother.”

They talked at length about nothing of consequence, and Cichol watched as the sun slowly moved across the sky through the solar’s window. He could not bring himself to ask about the war, or about Father. His mother and uncle were _happy_ right now, and that was what mattered.

Soon, the door unlatched again, and Aunt Seiros strode into the room. She looked exhausted, and as she sank into the chair at the head of the table, she began disentangling herself from her headdress. Once she was free, she locked eyes with him. “Well… It has been so _many_ years since this many of our kind were together. I expect that you have questions, Ci-- Seteth? I shall answer them to the best of my ability. Or perhaps you would simply prefer to listen as I explain the history of Fodlan? I am happy to do that, as well.” She smiled, but something felt off about it, something that he couldn’t quite place. Cichol swallowed hard, doing his best to push away his fear. There was much for him to learn, after all.

  
  


**\- 10th of the Lone Moon, Imperial Year 1179 -**

Seteth’s first year at Garreg Mach had both flown and crawled by. For Nabateans, time’s flow meant very little. Small physical changes took decades, rather than the months it would for a human to, as a random example, grow a convincing beard. Seteth had been supremely frustrated by his inability to grow one over his year at the monastery - his father Balor had sported quite the stern one himself, but Seteth’s attempt was barely even noticeable. He had, through hard effort that he had kept from his mother, lost most of the baby fat that his long slumber brought back, but… To his chagrin, as fresh-faced as he was, the humans at the monastery only saw him as a _teenager_. Such an insulting and infuriating race… He shook his head as he walked towards the audience chamber. He was getting off-track, and he needed to collect his thoughts. All that had led to this moment floated through his mind.

Flayn had been beside herself when she found out that he had been training for combat again. Her understandable fretting from when he first woken up had already soured in his mind, and worse still was that she showed no signs of letting up. What little he had been able to do thus far was with the aid of Alois (a rather jovial warrior with an atrocious sense of humor and an odd aesthetic eye) and Shamir (a sniper from Dagda who, as far as he could tell, had no devotion or belief in Grandmother - _no, the Goddess_ , he corrected himself). In the early summer, he had finally convinced her to allow him to de-rust his martial skills, and _only_ under their direct supervision. She would likely never let him join the Knights, but for now at least, Seteth didn’t particularly want to do that. Catherine (Rhea’s pet knight who, to his continued revulsion, wielded one of those _detestable_ “Heroes’ Relics”) had given him an interesting idea as the monastery geared up for the Officer’s Academy’s graduation ceremony - what better way for Seteth to get his bearings in this new world (and prove to Flayn that he was ready for adult responsibilities) than to join the Officer’s Academy himself?

Flayn and Rhea did not always see eye to eye, even during the war. Even from the distance he had always been held to, he knew that. But for some reason, his suggestion a few days earlier that he join the class of 1180 had _really_ set her off. He disliked antagonizing his mother, but in this, she was being unreasonable. The shouting match he had overheard between her and Rhea was ferocious, and he found himself once again rather frightened of the person his aunt had become. Her “history” was bad enough - the Church of Seiros was a farce as far as he was concerned. Wilhelm’s Empire was a shadow of its former self, having split off several times into neighboring Faerghus and Leicester, and now Rhea herself was the true holder of power in Fodlan. Grandmother would never have wanted _this_ , surely. He almost resented the idea of joining an Officer’s Academy that would put him at his aunt’s direct beck and call… But something deep within him found the idea compelling, all the same. 

He knocked on the audience chamber doors. A tense “Enter.” reached his ears, and he slipped inside to find Flayn and Rhea glaring at one another while Morus desperately tried to evaporate from his position next to Rhea. The three of them turned as he entered, and he found himself being ushered into Rhea’s personal office. Staring at her high-backed, unyielding chair gave him the oddest sensation of deja vu, but he shook it away. He had an argument to make, and win.

He cleared his throat, and looked Flayn in the face. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and for a moment, his purpose wavered. But only for a moment.

“I will be brief. I know that you are concerned for my safety and wellbeing. I know that I cannot convince you to do otherwise, any more than I could convince the sun not to rise or set for a day. But the life you would have me lead… It is _suffocating_. And I know that I have myself to blame for it. If I--”

Flayn, to the shock of everyone in the room, cut him off. “Seteth, no! You cannot blame yourself for what happened.” Her expression descended into deep sadness. “Our decision to become embroiled in the war… I cannot say that it was wrong, if only because of what the alternative would have been. But we dragged you into it when you were far too young. Because of _our_ decision, Balor fell…” She sighed. “Because of _our_ decision, you were wounded, and slept for so very long… You must understand why I do not want you to expose yourself to danger, surely! Every year for the past twenty-five years, I have tended to students of the Officer’s Academy. Most I could save. Some… Some I could not.”

Tears slipped down her face, but she kept her voice level. “In their faces, I would see _yours_ , Cichol. Every one I lost felt like I was re-living the worst day of my life. I cannot _bear_ to see you in harm’s way again. The mere thought of you _actually_ being in their place is too much.”

Seteth reached out a hand, and placed it on her shoulder. When he spoke next, his voice was softer, and comforting. “Mother… I understand your fear. I do. But… Please allow me to tell you about _my_ fear. Almost more than anything in this world, I fear sleep. My slumber cost me so much, and worried you so much… I fear every time I close my eyes at night that I might wake up to find that another thousand years have passed, and that the world will have changed again. But do you know what I fear more than that, Mother?” She looked up at him, tears still shining in her eyes.

“I fear living, and dying, alone. I _long_ for companionship, like what you and Father had with your comrades during the war. I want to have _friends_ again, like Aldbern and Godwine! This past year, I have watched as those students found their way in the world, and I… I want nothing more than to be like them, if only for a time. To live among them, to eat, fight, and grow with them... Even if it is for a short time, and even if it only causes me pain, that is the true desire of my heart. I can say nothing else.”

Flayn lowered her head. She was no longer crying, but she refused to say anything. Morus put a gentle hand on her other shoulder, rubbing it with his thumb. “Sister… If ever there were a year for him to enroll, this would be it. The applications for this year are exceptional, and the house leaders for all three of the houses are the heirs of the three nations. While the Officer’s Academy does place students in live combat situations from time to time, _surely_ with the future heads of state involved, we can be a bit more… relaxed. Can we not, Seiros?”

Rhea sighed heavily. “I cannot make a _guarantee_ of that, but… It would be prudent, yes. I will do all that I can to ensure that Cichol is not in significant danger, Cethleann.” All eyes were on Flayn now. She let out a defeated sigh, and shrugged. “If that is your wish, then I… I will not stop you. But please. _Please_ , Cichol… Be careful.” She raised a shaking hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. Seteth broke into a smile, and put his hand on hers. “I will. I promise.”

  
  


**\- 12th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

Seteth stood in the entrance hall of the monastery next to Flayn, Rhea, and Morus. He had already decided which house he would be joining, once Professor Manuela had explained the houses to him. The Black Eagles house was for students from the Adrestian Empire, and very technically he _was_ from Enbarr. Besides, an eagle soaring through the skies suited him much more than a lion on the prowl, or a deer in the forest. That was how he had found himself waiting in the entrance hall, for today, any moment now, the heir to the Imperial throne, Edelgard von Hresvelg, was due to arrive at the monastery. She was his to be his house’s leader, despite not even being the age of majority for _humans_ , but he was willing to play nicely. In relative terms, he was probably roughly the same equivalent age to her before his long slumber anyway.

Soon, a carriage came into view, followed by several more. He balked - there were a _lot_ of carriages coming up towards the monastery. Catching Rhea’s eye caused her to chuckle at his apprehension, and she quietly explained “Almost all of the Black Eagles are the scions of the Empire’s noble houses. You may find yourself rubbing shoulders with familiar faces, Seteth.” He swallowed hard as the lead carriage came to a stop. A footman jumped off the carriage, extending down some stairs and opening the door before crying out “Her Imperial Highness, Lady Edelgard von Hresvelg!”

A short girl with white hair stepped out of the carriage, looking around at her surroundings with barely restrained curiosity. She made way for another figure to get out of the carriage; the footman announced him as well, though in a much quieter tone. “His Lordship, Hubert von Vestra!” Hubert was tall and lanky, with pale skin and black hair. His eyes were a yellow-green shade, and they instantly locked onto Seteth’s for a moment, before sliding over to glare at Rhea. Seteth smirked ever so slightly - who _was_ this one, to be so bold as to glare at Rhea in _her_ monastery? He looked back to Edelgard, only to find that she was also looking at him. Her eyes, a rather intriguing shade of lilac, met his, and all of a sudden his chest grew tighter.

Their carriage wheeled off to deposit their luggage, and another carriage took its place, with yet another footman. This was going to be quite the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helleborus foetidus, otherwise known as stinking hellebore, is a common perennial plant that, when its leaves are crushed, smells *odd*. It's typically compared to roast beef, a wet dog, or coffee grounds. Hellebore has been used in folklore to poison weapons, especially arrows. Basically this is my long-winded explanation for how and why and what venin weapons are.
> 
> Balor was a leader of the Fomorians in Irish mythology. Other Fomorians with familiar names are Cichol Gricenchos, Cethleann, and Indech. Hmm.
> 
> Aldbern and Godwine are ancient Germanic names. Godwine means "friend of God", and Aldbern means "old bear". There's not really a strong semantic connection for Aldbern to for the Aegir family, but Godwine passing down the Crest of Cethleann to our favorite sleepy healer feels comfy. They're ancient Germanic names because Adrestia is based on German (or more specifically Prussian) influences.
> 
> Morus, as Macuil revealed, is a play off of Moro, one of the First Dragons from Fates. That he calls Moro his uncle means that, in this fic, Sothis is related to the twelve First Dragons. This fic is also soooooort of in continuity with Sothis' heritage from A Matched Pair, where Naga makes a brief cameo as Sothis' sister. This is part of my supporting the theory that the First Dragons from Fates are in fact the same dragons that made blood pacts with the Twelve Crusaders from Genealogy of the Holy War and Thracia 776. Basically, Sothis' siblings could not stop making goddamn blood pacts with humans, and oopsie doopsie now *her* kids are doing it too. That family, smh.
> 
> Yes I did just wholesale steal the description of Rhea's solar from A Matched Pair. I can't be assed to type all of that again when I did a pretty good job before.
> 
> As a general note, this fic should be considered to be on the back burner until A Matched Pair ends, whenever that will be. I certainly don't intend to abandon it, but I've only gone ahead and touched this chapter up and posted it because I have writer's block for that fic. Updates will likely be sporadic until that one wraps up.


	2. Eagles' Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth meets some of the other students at the Officer's Academy, Byleth enters the monastery, and the first day of class goes a little less well than planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this looks like a job for me  
> So everybody, just follow me  
> Cause we need a little controversy  
> Cause it feels so empty without me  
> \- Without Me, Eminem

**\- 13th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

Seteth, as was his custom, rose with the sun. He had been given a dorm room, much to Flayn’s chagrin, at the very end of the row on the first floor. He was nearby to the training grounds and to the sauna and bathhouses, which did mean that he was in the direct path of any noisy traffic heading that way, but rising as early as he did meant that was seldom going to be an issue. He did a few stretches, attempting to limber his body up, then threw on some of the lighter clothes the monastery provided to students and headed out to the training grounds. One of Flayn’s conditions for him joining the Academy had been that he train in another martial discipline, since his lancefaire was likely more advanced than whoever their professor was going to be could manage, and also would be archaic in comparison to his classmates. That meant that he needed to try out different weapons discreetly, and attempt to figure out which suited his style best. What better time than before term even started?

To his annoyance, he was not the only one there, despite the early hour. A young man with hair somewhere between black and blue was working through sword forms against some training dummies, and on the other side of the yard, his house leader, Edelgard, was setting up to train on her own dummy. Her retainer, Hubert, loomed nearby, and caught Seteth’s gaze like he’d been able to feel it. He glared at Seteth, but Seteth couldn’t really bring himself to care - this was probably some territorial behavior ingrained in him when he was taught how to be a retainer. What Seteth _could_ care about, however, was what Edelgard was up to - despite being surprisingly short, and not visibly muscular, the white-haired girl hefted a wooden training axe, and began to run through her own set of forms. She made an axe seem positively _graceful_ , dodging and flourishing. Seteth watched her for a little while longer, then shook himself awake. He had planned on taking up the axe, if he couldn’t have his lance, but… Perhaps it would be better to try the sword, instead.

Ignoring Hubert’s continued glare, Seteth grabbed a wooden training sword and a small leather buckler. He took up a position in the corner of the room, between Edelgard and the dark-haired swordsman, and brought himself into a ready position. His father’s voice guided him through his forms, as he had learned them so long ago.

“ _Very good, Cichol! Now, long-point!_ ”

“ _Step through! Good, good! Into fiddle-bow, then strike!_ ”

“ _Fool’s guard next, Cichol! Excellent! Now come at me!_ ”

Seteth had, at some point, closed his eyes, feeling his father’s guidance as he moved through half-remembered guards and stances. He opened his eyes and began a free-form series of blows, only to feel several pairs of eyes on him. He attempted to ignore them until he felt he was properly warmed up, then sighed, and turned around. The dark-haired swordsman was watching him intently, drinking in his technique. Off to his left, Edelgard and Hubert were conversing next to the water barrel, both of them watching him carefully. He resolved to talk to them first, since they were in his house, but the swordsman had other plans as he crossed in front of Seteth and folded his arms.

“Old fencing techniques. That’s not something you see every day. Care to spar?” Seteth hiked an eyebrow up at how forward this young man was. “I would consider it. However, it is somewhat rude to demand a match without first giving your name.” The swordsman frowned, but after a moment or two simply said “Felix”. Seteth nodded his head. “Well met, then, Felix. I am Seteth. Shall we?”

He and Felix moved to the center of the training grounds, standing a few feet apart. Seteth immediately swept up into a duelist’s salute before falling back into a guard with his sword angled low. Felix cocked an eyebrow at this, but stiffly saluted in what Seteth realized must be the style of Faerghan fencing before settling into a traditional ready position. They eyed each other for a moment, then Felix sprang towards him, evidently hoping to take advantage of his low guard with a high blow. Seteth responded with a slash that forced Felix to guard, which was returned with lightning speed - Felix was _fast_ , and knew what he was doing. It was all Seteth could really do to keep up with him, though he could tell that he had the swordsman beat on raw physical strength.

The rhythmic clacking of training weapons lulled him into old memories for a moment, and Felix seized on his small lapse in awareness and delivered a punishing blow to Seteth’s right arm. Gasping more from the sensation than from pain, Seteth dropped back and switched his handing. Fighting left-handed wasn’t his strong suit, but it would have to suffice. Felix, however, stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing?”

Seteth looked confused. “I… In battle, that would have been a debilitating injury, and my right hand would be useless, if indeed my arm were even still attached. Is that not how you spar?” Felix scoffed, though after he realized that Seteth’s question was genuine, he shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of sparring like that without a live edge. Where the hell did you learn to fight, anyway? I’ve only read about some of those techniques.” Seteth puffed out his chest ever so slightly. “From my father. He was a peerless warrior.”

Felix frowned. “I see. Well, whatever. Let’s continue, then--”

A new voice cut them off, sounding slightly nasally and more than a little put-upon. “Actually, if I could have Princess Edelgard, Mr. Vestra, and, um… Mr. Seteth come with me? It’s time to begin our first class meetings. You ought to go find Professor Hanneman, Mr. Fraldarius.” Seteth turned towards the entrance to the training grounds, and found a very odd sight waiting for him. A man with unkempt pink hair was standing in the doorway. He looked extremely haggard, and hardly seemed as though he was all that suited to combat. Seteth’s eyes, which were admittedly sharper than those of most humans, even spotted stains on the man’s tunic, which he attributed to the alcohol his superior Nabatean nose could smell wafting off of the man. Seteth frowned, but there was no getting around this that he could see. Returning his attention to Felix, he shrugged. “Apologies. Perhaps we can continue this another time?” Felix eagerly nodded, and everyone moved to put away their training equipment. Seteth, Edelgard, and Hubert followed after the pink-haired man, who led them to the Black Eagles homeroom. Seteth blinked - had he somehow missed nearly three entire hours while training?

His confusion was mirrored on Edelgard’s face, though she was quick to make her expression neutral when she saw him looking at her. Still, that at least told him that there was something irregular to this whole affair. Their foursome stepped inside the classroom, and the pink-haired man went all the way up to the podium in the front, and began to write his name on the board. “Oh, stars, no…” Seteth hissed out in an undertone. Edelgard evidently heard him, as she smiled faintly and nodded.

After he wrote his name, he turned around to face his… well, to call it a “class” would be a bit generous. Besides the three of them who had been in the training grounds, Seteth spotted a red-headed young man in the front row, a tanned young woman with burgundy hair in the second row, and a young man with powder blue hair in the fourth row. He tried to compare the names that had been announced yesterday as all the nobles arrived to his classmates, but it was quite impossible to match them up, and he was fairly certain that Kingdom and Alliance nobles had been mixed in as well.

The pink-haired man, who Seteth was still refusing to believe was their _professor_ , spoke up. “Well… I guess this is everyone who’s coming, then? Kinda disappointing, but I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to corral the troublemakers. You three come find your seats now, please.” Reluctantly, Seteth obeyed, as did Edelgard and Hubert. The three of them ended up in the second row, with Hubert between the burgundy-haired woman and Edelgard, and Seteth next to Edelgard on the outside of the row. 

Clearing his throat, the pink-haired man tapped the board with chalk. “Well, as you can no doubt read, I’m Professor Makalov, and I’m going to be your instructor for the year. Let’s go ahead and get started, and then, er…” His face took on a greenish tint. “On second thought, we can get into this when I get back from the big trip. You’re all dismissed.” He dashed out of the room, a hand to his head.

The few Black Eagles who had even bothered to show up were silent, until the blue-haired man broke the silence. “Wow, what an asshole!”

The room exploded into laughter, with the exception of the burgundy-haired woman and Hubert. As he wiped a small tear from the corner of his eye, Seteth wondered if Hubert was _capable_ of laughter. As the red-haired man in front of them wound his laughter down, he turned in his chair to face the blue-haired one. “Oh, Caspar... While I certainly appreciated your joke, that man is, I suppose, our professor. It is our duty as nobles to bear this burden with grace and aplomb! So, you should probably refrain from saying things like that in the future.” The blue-haired man, Caspar, scrunched his face up. “Aw, who cares about that? The guy’s a total jerk! And what’s being a noble got to do with anything?” Next to Seteth, Edelgard sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. The red-haired man began to protest, but Edelgard cut him off almost instantly.

“That’s enough, Ferdinand. With a man of as obviously dubious a caliber as Professor Makalov, I highly doubt we shall have to put up with him for long. Save your respect for someone who deserves it, please.” Ferdinand looked as though he wanted to argue the point, but before he could, the burgundy-haired woman spoke. “I… My apologies, but I am having confusion. What is an ‘asshole’?”

Ferdinand went red in the face, and looked away hurriedly. Edelgard put her head in her hands for a moment, then brought it back up with a pained expression on her face. “It’s slang, Petra. The way Caspar used the word means ‘a bad and unpleasant person’, though it has other meanings, as well. Ask Dorothea if you want to know more.”

She turned to Seteth, fixing him with a rather intense stare for this early in the morning. “I suppose I ought to make some introductions for you, since all of us know one another already. I am Edelgard von Hresvelg, heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire. This”, she said, turning and gesturing to Hubert, “is Hubert von Vestra, the heir of Marquis Vestra.” Seteth nodded in greeting to Hubert, though it was not returned. “To his right is Petra Macneary. She is the heir of the king of Brigid, and has been living in Fodlan ever since the Dagda and Brigid War five years ago.” Petra smiled, and bowed her head to Seteth. Without thinking, Seteth spoke to her in near-perfect, if a bit stiff, Brigidian, saying “ _Ah, well met. I was unaware that two royals were in this class._ ” Everyone in the room froze, and Seteth could have kicked himself.

Petra’s smile brightened immensely, and she responded in her native tongue “ _Your Brigidian is flawless! It is so rare to hear anyone from Fodlan speak it. Do you mind if I come to you with questions from time to time? My grasp over Fodlani is still rather lacking._ ” Seteth managed a smile at her sincerity, but chose to answer in Fodlani instead of Brigidian for the benefit of everyone else. “I would be happy to help you - I myself had trouble learning Brigidian when I was younger, so I understand the gap between the two languages.” That got Edelgard to smile, at least, which was good.

The white-haired princess continued on as if nothing had happened, though he was sure that this would come up later. “In front of us is Ferdinand von Aegir, the heir of Duke Aegir.” Seteth’s eyes went wide, but he managed not to interrupt Edelgard a second time, even as his mind began racing. If this Ferdinand was a true-blooded descendant of his friend Aldbern, there was a good chance that the young man before him shared Seteth’s Crest.

Undeterred by Seteth’s thoughts, Edelgard moved on. “Lastly, this is Caspar von Bergliez. He’s the second son of Count Bergliez, and as you’ve seen, he has a tendency to speak his mind.” Caspar grinned at him and waved. Edelgard brought a hand to her chin. After a moment’s thought, she spoke once more. “Though it seems none of them were able to rouse themselves at this hour, our class also counts Linhardt von Hevring, the heir of Count Hevring, Bernadetta von Varley, the heir of Count Varley, and--” 

“Oh come on! I even got dressed as nice as I could in these awful uniforms. Don’t tell me that little man ditched us!” The assembled Eagles turned, and Seteth took sight of a rather irate brunette woman. She had accessorized her Academy uniform with earrings, bracelets, and a choker, and completed the look with a small, black hat which rested on her head at a jaunty angle. Her eyes landed on him, and she swept up through the classroom, coming to sit on the corner of the third row’s outside desk, immediately behind him. Seteth’s chest tightened - she was _quite_ attractive, wasn’t she? Edelgard let out a small, quiet sigh, and finished her thought. “As I said, this is Dorothea Arnault. She is a former songstress with the Mittelfrank Opera Company.” Dorothea flashed Seteth a winning smile, and held out a hand for him to shake.

He took it, and managed to get out “My name is Seteth” without sounding too taken aback. Dorothea’s smile grew wider, and she practically sang out “Charmed~!” For an awkward moment after this, none of the Black Eagles said anything. Then, mercifully, Petra broke the silence.

“Oh! Dorothea, I was wanting to ask you a question. Edelgard told me to ask it from… no, to you. What is the meaning of ‘asshole’?”

  
  


**\- 18th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

Seteth had bumped into the last two of the Black Eagles at various times in the intervening days. Linhardt, it seemed, was an avid reader, and something of an amateur Crest scholar. He had practically materialized from thin air in the library while Seteth was talking to Ferdinand about their shared Crest, expressing fascination at the rarity of the Major Crest of Cichol. Seteth deflected as best he could, but had to find an excuse to get away. He resolved to be more cautious around Linhardt from then on. Then, on a late trip to the dining hall after training into the night, he quite literally bumped into Bernadetta. The poor girl fainted from fear, and Seteth brought her into the kitchen while he scrambled about for some water and bread, assuming that her fainting had been from a lack of nutrition. She awoke to him attempting to tend to her, and screamed loud enough to make his ears ring. However, she didn’t end up running from him, which he thought was somewhat odd. He offered her the bread and water, and she took it wordlessly. After he apologized for frightening her and introduced himself, he bid her good night and left, hoping dearly that this incident wouldn’t find its way back to anyone important.

So, when Edelgard found him sitting alone on a bench staring out over the gorge on the evening of the 18th, he supposed that his luck had perhaps run out. “Seteth. We never seem to meet except when others are around. I had something I wanted to ask of you, as it happens.” 

He nervously shifted his gaze up to her eyes. They were the oddest shade of lilac, but something about them… He couldn’t quite place it, but they held some quality he felt that others’ eyes lacked. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he took a deep breath, and decided to plunge in. “Ah. Is this about Bernadetta? I apologized profusely, but I’m afraid she might not have accepted it.” Edelgard blinked a few times, before chuckling under her breath. “No, no. You’re not in trouble. I merely wished to talk. May I sit?”

Seteth scooted over to make room for Edelgard on the bench. For a moment, she said nothing, and looked out over the gorge, her eyes coming to rest on the cathedral. Something in her gaze hardened, and she sighed. “Well, I suppose I should start by saying that I find your sword technique intriguing. You don’t move like many swordsmen I’ve seen.” Unsure of how to take her comment, Seteth simply nodded in acknowledgment. After a moment of waiting for him to clarify, she pressed on. “You mentioned that your father was the one who taught you. I’m told that you joined the Black Eagles because you were born in Enbarr… Yet, I must admit, I’ve never seen anyone quite like you among the Imperial nobility.”

Seteth swallowed. “I… I would not say that we were any sort of nobility, if that is what is causing confusion. I-- er, we, that is, were raised simply, and I personally had very few dealings with nobles until somewhat late in my life to date.” Edelgard raised an eyebrow. “Really? Forgive me, but that seems somewhat difficult to believe. As I understand it, you bear a Major Crest of Cichol. Ferdinand, and indeed many within the Aegir family, possess minor variants of that crest, but you are the only person I have _ever_ heard of who bears the major variant. And your speech is quite… Refined, I suppose, for a commoner.” Seteth sat very still as he tried to think of a response, but his discomfort must have shown on his face as Edelgard reclined back slightly.

“My apologies. If you do not wish to talk about issues of family, I understand. It can be a sore subject for many. I am curious, though: how old are you? You don’t look any older than the rest of us, but appearances can often be deceiving. Petra, for example, is only fifteen, believe it or not.” Seteth sputtered for a moment, then choked out “ _Fifteen?!_ But… But you said she was a hostage!”

Edelgard’s brow furrowed. “I never said that, but I suppose you aren’t incorrect, strictly speaking. It was one of the first major decisions made by the Imperial council after the Insurrection of the Seven. My father would never have allowed such a thing, but… Well, you understand, I suppose.” Seteth, strictly speaking, did _not_ understand, but this conversation had made him realize that his cover was flimsier than he had initially realized. He gave her a noncommittal grunt, and covered by shaking his head and sighing. “Still, though… To be torn away from one’s family at such a young age… It’s remarkable that she is as open as she is.”

Edelgard nodded somberly. “Ever since I met Petra, I have wanted to help her. In my rule as Emperor, I intend to strengthen Adrestia’s ties to Brigid - not as vassal and suzerain, but as equals upon the world stage.” Seteth cocked an eyebrow. Memories flashed through his mind:

“ _In my ideal world, none of these fiends who exploit the people of Fodlan for their own gain would live to see the light of day. All the people would be as equals upon the world’s stage, Nabatean and human alike! Alas for such a world, Seiros my dear…_ ”

Seteth smiled - some things truly do bear out in blood, it would seem. Edelgard looked at him oddly, but before she could ask what he was smiling about, he spoke. “I think that that is a wonderful goal. If that is the kind of ruler you will be, I imagine Adrestia will be all the better for it.” She turned away from him briefly, a small smile playing at her lips.

They sat together in silence for a while longer, before Seteth felt a chill in the air. He glanced behind him, only to spot Hubert walking up. Edelgard stiffened as she noticed his presence, and her smile faded behind a mask of neutrality. Hubert bowed at the waist once he got close to them. “My apologies Your Highness, but it is time. You and the other house leaders have been called to the stables.” Edelgard let out a long, low sigh, then stood. “Thank you, Hubert. Please spend your time constructively while I am away.” Her dark retainer bowed again, but did not leave her side. Turning to Seteth, Edelgard added “I suppose we shall have to continue speaking another time, then. Good day, Seteth.”

She turned and began walking even before he could respond, her white hair fanning out behind her. Seteth had assumed that they had already finished speaking beforehand, but this new invitation left him a bit nonplussed. Though she was already gone, he responded “Good day, Edelgard.”

  
  


**\- 20th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

The monastery and Officer’s Academy were in an uproar. An advance rider with Alois’ knight detachment, which had gone along with the house leaders and Professor Makalov for protection in case something were to happen during the trip, stormed his way up to the monastery in the early morning hours. Seteth, who was in the market perusing the blacksmith’s wares at the time, guided the man up to Rhea’s audience chamber, fetching Rhea and Morus shortly thereafter. The news he brought was shocking - the three house leaders and Professor Makalov had been separated from the Knights of Seiros and attacked by bandits. Worse, instead of standing to direct them, or even to assist them in their fight, the pink-haired professor had turned tail and ran into the hills. By some miraculous stroke of luck, the house leaders were able to find help in the form of a famous mercenary group, the Iron Company, which Alois had learned after the fact was led by a man named Jeralt the Blade-Breaker, a former captain of the Knights of Seiros.

Rhea went white as a sheet when she heard Jeralt’s name, and Morus gave her a questioning look that she pointedly ignored. The advance rider went on to say that Jeralt, his mercenary company, and a young man that Alois believed to be Jeralt’s son were all on their way to the monastery, escorting the house leaders alongside the Knights of Seiros. Rhea thanked the man for his report, and ordered everyone out of the audience chamber. Seteth, of course, was quite curious about this response from his aunt, and he went to the infirmary to inform Flayn of the new development.

Flayn was not alone when he arrived, and was tending to an unusually surly-looking Felix, as well as a young man with scarlet hair. A young woman with a blonde braid stood next to the redhead’s cot, glowering at him for some misdeed or another. Seteth decided that the news would soon spread across the monastery even if he kept quiet, and launched into the rider’s tale after a brief greeting to his “sister”. Flayn initially tutted at how Makalov abandoned the students (Seteth realized with delight that this meant that Makalov was no longer due even a perfunctory amount of respect), and seemed intrigued by the appearance of this “Jeralt” figure. Though she couldn’t say anything with students there, he knew that she was just as curious as he was at Rhea’s reaction. What caught him off-guard, however, was the sudden invasion of his personal space by the blonde woman.

“Wait, are the house leaders alright? Is Prince Dimitri unharmed?” Seteth blinked, and stammered out. “Y-yes, of course they are. The mercenaries I mentioned made sure no harm came to them, but if you stood guard in the entrance hall, you could see for yourself. They should be arriving in a few hours.” Without a further word, the blonde woman ran out of the infirmary, leaving Seteth thoroughly confused. He glanced at Felix, who sighed heavily. The other man spoke up as he caught sight of Seteth’s expression. “Oh, don’t let her get you down too much. That’s just how Ingrid acts. I’m Sylvain, by the way. Sylvain Jose Gautier.” Seteth nodded in acknowledgement, before adding “She isn’t _actually_ going to go stand guard in the entrance hall, is she?” Sylvain shrugged. “Could be. Ingrid’s, like, the knightliest knight there is. At least, she wants to be.” Felix hummed in agreement from his cot. Flayn tutted again, this time directing it at Seteth. “I… should probably go make sure she doesn’t do that. There’s no telling when they’ll actually arrive.” Despite Sylvain’s protests that Ingrid would never listen, Seteth left the infirmary, heading down to the entrance hall himself.

To his surprise, Ingrid was not the only student waiting at the steps next to the ever-cheerful gatekeeper. Hubert was there - of _course_ he had already found out. Another student, this one with a ridiculously bad haircut and a large, artificial rose pinned to his chest, was also waiting there, making small talk with a girl with close-cropped orange hair. Standing on the opposite side of the hall from the other students was a giant of a man with dark skin and white hair that was pulled back into a small ponytail. Seteth might have mistaken him for one of the Knights of Seiros were it not for his uniform, which was clearly from the Officer’s Academy. Rather than approaching a group of near strangers (and Hubert, whose hostility was unwelcome at the best of times), Seteth opted instead to approach the man standing by himself.

The man eyed him warily as he came to a stop, before turning his attention back to the gates. Seteth stood awkwardly for a moment, then decided to introduce himself, if only to pass time. “Greetings. I assume you also heard about the house leaders?” The man nodded, saying nothing. “I see. I admit, I am more curious about the mercenaries traveling with them than anything else, but from the messenger’s report, the three of them should be unharmed. Ah, but, where are my manners? I am Seteth, of the Black Eagles.” The large man turned his attention on Seteth in full, sizing him up. Then, after an uncomfortable moment, he nodded. “I am Dedue Molinaro. I serve Prince Dimitri.”

Seteth smiled - this Dedue fellow was merely taciturn, then. “Well met, Dedue. Your counterpart from the Black Eagles, Hubert von Vestra, is over on the other side of the hall. If I went to speak with the rest of them, would you care to join me?” Dedue hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “It would not do for a man of Duscur to associate too closely with other students. I shall remain here.” Seteth’s brow knit as he scrambled to place Duscur in his mind - it was, if he remembered correctly, a small peninsula with an insular culture in the north-west of Faerghus. Suddenly, he recalled that the Duscurians had been the subject of a vicious pogrom following the assassination of the previous ruler of Faerghus, King Lambert, while on a diplomatic mission in their lands. Was Dedue worried about prejudice from the other students? 

“Hmm. Well, I suppose that is your prerogative. However, I do not believe that you need to isolate yourself simply because you are from Duscur. This monastery is host to people from all around the world - Shamir from Dagda, Cyril from Almyra, and Petra from Brigid all come to mind. The goddess would not want something like lines on a map to keep people apart.” Dedue quirked an eyebrow at this statement, and Seteth suddenly felt very embarrassed. Who was he to lecture a man whose culture had been all but erased from the world? Duscur was not even a line on a map anymore, after all.

“I… I am sorry. That was insensitive of me.” He bowed his head to Dedue, who backed away a step. “There is no need to apologize.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable with the whole affair. After a moment, he spoke again. “I appreciate your words, and the sentiment beneath them. Outside of His Highness, I have met few people who feel so… generously. I will take your words into consideration, but not today.” Seteth nodded, and glanced over towards the other students. Ingrid, the blonde knight, was staring at him intently, and had apparently been listening in. Hubert was glowering at everyone in the room, but he reserved an especially nasty glare for Seteth. The other two were too absorbed in conversation to notice anything else. Seteth made a decision, and spoke again. “If it is all the same, would you mind terribly if I waited here? The others are a bit… noisy, for my taste.” Dedue nodded silently, but Seteth caught a faint smile on the large man’s face.

\---

As their party approached the monastery, Byleth found himself surrounded by increasingly grand scenery. The village nestled below the giant complex of buildings and stonework that was the monastery proper was of above-average size, and appeared to be flourishing. Vendors hawked their wares, and the streets were busy with the hustle and bustle that Byleth had come to associate with smaller cities, instead of provincial villages. Children stared openly as they passed by, and it seemed that word had indeed already arrived about just who was coming to Garreg Mach. 

Ever since that morning, since… Since _Sothis_ , she called herself, woke up inside his mind, he had had nagging _sensations_. He didn’t know what to make of them, or even what to call them, but whenever he thought about how his father had hidden the fact that he had once been the captain of the Knights of Seiros, something in his chest, shoulders, and jaw felt tense and constricted. That was the first of his sensations. Now, though, he felt a new one. As they drew closer and closer to the monastery itself, Byleth began to feel smaller than he actually was. The scope of the buildings around him dwarfed him, dwarfed his father… He couldn’t put a name to it, and Sothis appeared to be sleeping again after their eventful early morning, so he couldn’t ask her if she knew what to call it. He shrugged to himself, an action that was noted by both the boy with tanned skin and sharp green eyes, Claude, and the girl with the white hair and odd purple eyes, Edelgard.

As they passed beneath the portcullis and into the monastery’s open air market, many sounds, smells, and sensations assaulted him all at once. Nearby was a blacksmith, hammering away at some stubborn piece of metal. Over to his left was a red-haired merchant with a high, clear voice, advertising “rare wares not often seen in Fodlan”, whatever those could be. General goods sellers, fruit vendors, curio merchants… This market had them all. From somewhere further ahead, the smell of fish drifted enticingly into his nostrils. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch for some reason. Fishing had always been the one pastime he and his father could share reliably, which Byleth guessed meant he liked it. Perhaps that’s what that twitch meant, as well. The noise and bustle around them began to seem almost crushing, but soon most of the soldiers (“ _The Knights of Seiros, not just common soldiers_ ”, he reminded himself) split off from them. The rest of the Iron Company hung back in the market on Jeralt’s orders, beginning to resupply themselves and peruse the stalls.

They approached a large set of doors. A soldier stood to one side of the doors, and he gave their party a wave as they approached. Alois seemed to know him well enough, and talked briefly with him. Byleth, however, was too busy studying the faces of some younger people who were standing around near the gatekeeper, all in similar uniforms to the three nobles they had rescued. Two of them approached Edelgard - one was a tall, dark-haired man who immediately bowed upon greeting her, and another of middling height with vibrant green hair and eyes. For some reason, he kept looking over at Byleth with an unreadable expression on his face. Claude and Dimitri each had two people waiting for them as well, though the orange-haired girl who moved in to check on Claude kept staring very intently at Jeralt for some reason. Edelgard cleared her throat, catching the attention of Alois. “If it is alright with you, I think that I speak for all of my companions when I say that rest would be most appreciated right about now.”

Alois clapped an armored hand to his forehead. “Oh, goodness, forgive me! I hadn’t even thought about how exhausted you three must be. Go on then, you’ve all earned a rest. Though you should be ready for summons from Lady Rhea tomorrow. I’m certain she’ll want to debrief the three of you.” For half a moment, Byleth could have sworn he saw a shadow cross Edelgard’s face, but it was gone as soon as he took another look. She turned to him, and gave him a small nod. “It appears our paths must diverge here. Thank you again for the timely rescue. May we see more of each other in the future - please consider my offer, if you would.” Byleth quickly replayed the events of the last few hours in his mind to figure out what Edelgard meant... Ah, of course. Edelgard had offered both the Iron Company in general and him in specific quite a lot of gold to go to work for the Empire, but without Jeralt’s say-so, they wouldn’t be moving. 

Not wanting to say all that out loud, he settled for a shallow nod, adding “I will think it over. Good day.” As Claude and Dimitri gave their goodbyes and began to leave with their retinues, he noticed Edelgard whispering to the green-haired man. He nodded, and stayed near their party as Edelgard and the tall man left. Once Alois had finished talking to the gatekeeper, he caught sight of the green-haired man, and his smile got even brighter. “Why Seteth, what a _welcome_ surprise! I didn’t expect to find you waiting for us here.” The man, Seteth, gave Alois a small smile in return, before adding “I’ve come to ensure that our guests of honor are well-attended while you deliver your report to Lady Rhea.” Alois nodded, and began speaking to Jeralt. Byleth assumed that by “guests of honor” he meant them, but he had no idea what Seteth’s attendance would entail.

He wouldn’t need to wait long to find out, though, as their party moved up through the entrance hall and into what Alois informed them was the grand reception hall of another building. Along the way, they had caught sight of two women standing on a small balcony. The taller of the two had minty green hair, eyes the same shade as Seteth’s, and a dangerous feeling about her even at a distance. The woman next to her was shorter by half a head or so, but her hair matched Seteth’s in color exactly. She had a much less severe feeling to her for some reason. Alois left them with Seteth at one of the many long tables, presumably giving his report to Lady Rhea, whom Byleth had learned was the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. Jeralt seemed wary of her, which confirmed his earlier suspicion. 

Seteth, thankfully, did not pester him over-much, content in making small talk with Jeralt after the first few attempts to engage Byleth in conversation failed. Soon Alois returned, and their party ascended the stairs to the second floor for their meeting with the archbishop. Little did Byleth know how life-changing this meeting would be.

  
  


**\- 23rd of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

Flayn arrived at his quarters before sunrise that morning. Her presence was hardly something that needed to be clandestine - they were “brother” and “sister”, after all - but she knew exactly how to take advantage of his desire to keep quiet so as to avoid bothering his new classmates at such an early hour. She fussed over his appearance, smoothing down his hair and straightening his collar. Then, after a lecture about proper conduct, and a reminder to come to her if he needed anything or ever felt uncomfortable, she had produced a small box from within her robes. He very nearly dropped it upon opening the box, for inside was a small pendant. It was a simple silver disc that bore his Crest, created by his Uncle Macuil shortly after his birth. It would have been a charming gift by itself, but…

“This was Father’s. …You kept it.” Tears began to well up in Seteth’s eyes, and he gently lifted the pendant up to hold it in the light. It was unmistakable.

“I did. After all these years, I figured you might like to have it, to keep a piece of him close to you.” Flayn smiled through her own shimmering tears, and pulled Seteth into an embrace. He slipped it on, looping the chain under his collar but letting the pendant itself hang down onto his vest, before rolling up his sleeves to three-quarters length. With the weather as warm as it was, he was forgoing the jabot, cummerbund, and jacket as well. With a final seal of approval from Flayn, Seteth set out to face the day.

\---

Edelgard sat in front of her vanity, brushing carefully through her hair. It took a lot of work to maintain it, and it was the one aspect of her life where she would allow herself time and energy to primp. She rarely used makeup beyond the most basic of basics to hide the occasional blemish, and she hardly considered it primping to dress appropriately for her role, but her hair… That was special. As damaged as her hair was, it was a sign of survival. Of strength. Her resilience was bound up in this hair, and she maintained it almost religiously. It was the last connection she had to her old life, after all…

A sharp knock startled her from her thoughts. Hubert’s voice floated through the door. “Lady Edelgard. May I?” She called out for Hubert to enter, and he let himself in, closing the door behind him and standing at attention next to her desk. It seemed that today he was willing to let her speak first? How interesting. She smiled to herself in the mirror, and began fussing with her ribbons. “I trust everything is ready?”, she asked, eyeing Hubert through the reflection. He nodded. “I can already tell that this one is far removed from our previous excuse for a professor. I still believe you ought to allow me to hunt him down.” Edelgard let out a small, frustrated huff. “As I’ve said multiple times, there is no need for that. The man is a coward, and will not show his face here again, even if his job _could_ be returned to him. For now, we need to concentrate on this one.”

Hubert stirred restlessly, which gave her pause. “What is it?” He was silent for a moment, before he reluctantly said “I cannot continue my surveillance on the one Rhea placed in our house while focusing on the mercenary. Are you certain that you wish me to focus on him instead?” A small smile found itself on Edelgard’s lips. “Quite. I can handle Seteth, of that I have no doubts. Watch Byleth carefully, and provide me a preliminary report within the week. I need to know if we need to move forward sooner, rather than later.” Hubert bowed stiffly at the waist. “As you wish, Lady Edelgard. By your leave, then.” She nodded, and Hubert let himself out of her room. She finished getting ready and stood up. It was time to begin.

\---

Seteth waited nervously with the rest of the Black Eagles in their classroom. That mercenary, Byleth, had been flitting around the grounds of Garreg Mach for the past few days, observing the comings and goings of its residents with a dead, dispassionate stare. Rhea had betrayed nothing of why she was so fixated on this… this _child_ , but she surely had gone too far this time! As if creating a religion wasn’t bad enough, now she was meddling with his chance to experience freedom and spend time with the future leaders of Fodlan! 

He had willingly acted the spy for Edelgard over the past few days when it came to Rhea’s dealings with Byleth, and that led her to corner him the previous evening to inform him that she and Hubert would be taking the measure of the man, and that he was invited (as if he could refuse) to assist them. Evidently today was the day that he would officially take over the Black Eagles’ house as their professor, and while he was certainly a more welcome face than that Makalov fellow had been, Seteth had strong doubts.

He entered their homeroom punctually at nine bells, sweeping forward at a brisk pace. Seteth had managed to overhear some of the guards whispering about him - that he was known and feared as the “Ashen Demon”, and could kill without a trace of emotion on his face. To look at the man now hardly inspired that kind of fear, but there must be something to the emotionless quality his moniker conveyed.

After he did a visual headcount, he picked up the chalk and stared at the board for a moment, before somewhat stiffly writing his name on the board. His penmanship betrayed that he did not often spend time writing, as “BYLETH EISNER” was written out in large, blocky letters. He turned and stood in front of his desk, silent for a moment as he stared up into the rafters. Seteth was tempted to groan, but since he was seated next to Edelgard and behind Ferdinand, that would probably attract undue attention. Suddenly, Byleth snapped his head downwards, glancing at each of the assembled Black Eagles.

“Good morning. My name is Byleth Eisner. I am a mercenary by trade, and have been hired on as your professor for this academic year. Before we begin, I want to address a few things. First: I am not a well-learned man. My grasp on academic subjects is likely lacking in comparison to the kind of education that nobles are able to receive, and I ask your forgiveness in advance for any difficulties I have. Having said that, my understanding of the art of warfare is, to my knowledge, only surpassed at this monastery by my father, Jeralt the Blade-Breaker. I will teach you how to become first-class soldiers, battalion commanders, and generals, so long as you are willing to put in the effort to learn.”

“Second: Ferdinand approached me with an offer regarding how you and I might interact during the year. I believe I am somewhat close in age to some of you, so I don’t mind if you call me by my name. If that is not agreeable to you, ‘Professor’ is also fine, as is any combination of my names with my title. I would ask that you keep any additional names or nicknames that you hear that refer to me out of the classroom environment.”

“Third: A mock battle is to be held on the 30th of the Great Tree Moon. That is in one week. Over the intervening days I will be measuring your abilities, and formulating a strategy for the mock battle. I would ask that you all put in some time in training before the battle outside of class. I do not lose battles, and I don’t intend to start now.”

He cut off so abruptly that for a moment, Seteth didn’t even realize that he was finished speaking. Glancing around the room told him that the other Black Eagles had been similarly caught off guard. Petra, who had opted to sit to his left in case she needed some help with Fodlani, leaned over and hissed into his ear “Is it over?” He shrugged. As his gaze returned to Professor Byleth, he realized that the mercenary was looking back upwards with a vacant expression. After an awkward moment, he spoke.

“I do not like the idea of reading history lessons and textbooks aloud to you. Instead, where things are relevant to your growth, I will make use of you in live demonstrations. To show an example of this, who here is familiar with…” He checked a thin notebook that Seteth hadn’t noticed was in his hand until just now. “Ah, yes. The duel of Derick von Aegir and Emperor Ermengarde von Hresvelg. Anyone?” Ferdinand’s hand, unsurprisingly, shot into the air almost immediately. Byleth called on him, and on Dorothea. Byleth brought the two of them to the front, and had them draw their Academy sabers as he skimmed through a book that was written at least in part about this duel. Much to Dorothea’s disappointment, he ended up skipping over what was quite the theatrical opening to the duel. He had the two of them stand in the empty space up front, and made the rest of the Eagles get up and sit along the front desks to watch.

“Now. While these old tales are often much more dramatic than they need to be, we can learn from them. This duel in particular features several foundational fencing maneuvers.” He gave brief instructions to the two of them - Ferdinand was to slowly move his way through several stances and guards, before falling to Dorothea, who would be positioned in the fool’s guard. Seteth folded his arms - this was, even if not a completely bad idea, hardly the space for a demonstration. Just as he had that thought, a tingling sensation rose up in his chest. Ferdinand swung slowly, but with dawning horror, he, and Seteth, realized that his Crest of Cichol was flaring up on its own. 

Seteth and Byleth reacted almost at the same time, bringing their own blades upward to deflect Ferdinand’s accidentally Crest-powered strike. Seteth felt the blood churn in his veins as he spotted an unfamiliar Crest marking blaze to life above the Professor’s hand. The two of them caught Ferdinand’s saber in a pincering swing, and it was flung upwards. For a moment, the entire room was silent as the saber quivered ominously where it had embedded itself in the thick wooden beam that ran along the roof. Then, pandemonium broke loose.

After a few unsuccessful attempts by Edelgard to quiet everyone down, Byleth put his fingers to his mouth, producing a shrill, piercing whistle that led to several of the Eagles clapping their hands over their ears. Having gotten their attention, Byleth sighed. “Perhaps this was not the best place for such a demonstration. I apologize. In the future, we will do these in the training grounds. Seteth: that was a very quick reaction. Well done.” The blue-haired man scratched at his head for a moment before continuing onward. “Right… Linhardt and Hubert. Please help me get this saber down, if you would.” The two tallest of the Black Eagles got to work begrudgingly, leaving the rest of their class to find their way back to their seats with the exception of himself, Edelgard, Ferdinand, and Dorothea.

Edelgard had gone even paler than normal for some reason, which concerned Seteth. Perhaps combat was something of a phobia of hers? That would be unfortunate, if it turned out to be the case. Ferdinand began to apologize profusely to Dorothea, who angrily blew him off before sidling up to Seteth. She was remarkably close to him when she spoke. “Why, thank you so much, Seteth. You really came in at just the right time! You ought to let me thank you by going out on a date with me sometime.” She winked, and giggled, raking her eyes up and down his frame before settling back on his face. Seteth stammered out “O-oh! I, um… That isn’t necessary. I only did what anyone would do.” He slid backwards, trying to find a way out from this situation, but soon came to rest against the first row of desks.

Dorothea giggled again, once more invading his personal space. Had humans _truly_ forgotten that proper respect for a person meant not pressing in close like this? Perhaps Morus had the right idea, being a loner. He kept his eyes firmly on Dorothea’s face, and with immense effort to keep his voice even, growled out “Dorothea, I apologize if this comes across as rude, but please do not get in my personal space.” The brunette frowned at him, clearly pouting. Somehow it made his chest feel tighter… Byleth, Hubert, and Linhardt, meanwhile, finally managed to pull the saber free, and handed it back to a very shamefaced Ferdinand.

“Aw, Seteth, I promise I don’t bite. I just wanted to take a closer look at your necklace.” She hummed, drawing closer and closer - he would have to do something drastic if she-- Dorothea rested the bottom of one of her palms on his chest, lifting the pendant slightly. “That’s a Crest, right? It makes sense that you’re a noble, I guess… You carry yourself so stiffly. Why, it feels like your heart isn’t even beating!” The color drained from his face instantly - who _said_ things like this in front of people?! Was this how he was going to be revealed for what he was? 

He scrambled to find some sort of defense, but mercifully, the brunette she-devil laughed, and finally, finally broke away from him. “Well, I don’t know how you managed that little trick, but it’s pretty good turnabout. You’re alright, for a noble. Do let me know if you... change your mind.” She smiled predatorily, and he felt his chest tighten again. He grimaced, but said nothing. With another small laugh to herself, she returned to her desk. The Professor’s eyes hadn’t left him since that exchange started, and he wondered what the inscrutable man was thinking.

Byleth cleared his throat as they returned to their seats, and spoke again, his voice as stilted and clipped as it had been earlier. “Dorothea. Please don’t do things like that while class is in session. You are all here to learn, and I am here to teach you. If I’m going to respect your time, I need all of you to respect mine. Understood?” Dorothea nodded, slightly pink in the face from being dressed down. Byleth nodded as well. “Good. Now then. Tomorrow morning, I want to see each of you at the training grounds at nine bells. We are going to spar so that I can get a measure of your abilities. We are going to break now for fifteen minutes while I prepare my roster and notes and give everyone a chance to relax from that, and when we reconvene, I will be going over your individual strengths, weaknesses, and goals. Please consider that as you are on break, and try not to be too loud while out on the lawn.”

In the cacophony of scraping chairs and chatter that broke out once they were released, Seteth sighed. That had been _entirely_ too close for comfort, in more ways that one. He began to get up to get some fresh air, but stopped as he realized Byleth had stepped in front of his desk. He met the mercenary’s blank gaze with one of his own, but he continued to stare, evidently sizing Seteth up. “Would you stay, Seteth? I want to talk to you.” He nodded, but seethed internally. How was _he_ getting in trouble now, after saving Dorothea from injury and then being on the receiving end of her… whatever that was? Stars, but this was unfair!

Once all of his classmates had left the room, Byleth sighed. Quick as a flash, he placed a hand on Seteth’s chest, right above his unbeating heart. The mercenary’s hand was warmer than he’d expected, which for some reason was all he could think about in that moment. The corners of Byleth’s mouth twitched, and he let out another, longer sigh. “I thought I was the only one. Your heart doesn’t beat either?” 

Seteth’s mind went blank.

\---

“ _Oh for the love of… WHAT WAS THAT?!_ ”

Byleth sighed wearily as time ground to a halt around him. From the look on Seteth’s now unmoving face, he figured that he had messed that up, but it seemed a bit much for Sothis to turn back the hands of time for a simple conversation. If small talk and bandits posed the same level of existential threat...

“I was just curious. I’ve never met anyone else like me. Why shouldn’t I tell him that?”

Sothis appeared from the ether, floating in mid-air. In terms of appearance, Byleth had originally reckoned her as a child, but that didn’t seem to hold true after speaking to her. She was far too… forceful, and knowledgeable. Why her form was stuck like that was anyone’s guess, but in the moment, at least, it didn’t seem to matter. She floated over towards Seteth, examining him with a critical eye for a moment, before huffing very loudly. “ _Honestly, if you don’t realize why telling someone ‘Oh, my heart doesn’t beat either, we should be friends!’ is a bad idea on several levels, I simply do not know what I’m going to do with you._ ”

Byleth stared at her, feeling… what was it again? Annoyance? Yes, annoyance. “I never said ‘We should be friends’. I only--”

Sothis threw up her hands, and groaned loudly. “ _It was an exaggeration, Byleth! Please try to keep up. We have more important things to focus on._ ”

He crossed his arms. “I’m not good at ‘picking up’ on these things. I’m sorry.” Sothis turned to face him, the look on her face (anger?) fading away only to be replaced by something he definitely could not identify. She let out a drawn-out sigh. “ _I know. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. You can be frustrating beyond belief, but I know now that it isn’t your fault. Now then… We should think about how to fix this. I will reverse time to… Ah, yes. To before you asked the boy to stay here. I would go even further to stop that debacle with the saber, but it actually seemed to work out in your favor somehow._ ”

Byleth nodded, but paused immediately afterwards. “What do I say instead, then? Isn’t it ‘odd behavior’ to stare at him without speaking?” Sothis pinched the bridge of her nose, staying quiet for a moment or two more. “ _Just tell him that, if he ever has any concerns with his classmates, he can come talk to you about it._ ”

Byleth groaned, but nodded. “As long as you’re there to help me, I guess that would be fine. Send me back, then.” A golden sigil appeared in front of Sothis, and as she moved her hands in front of it, the world started slipping backwards. When it came to a halt again, the now-familiar lurching feeling overtook him, and time resumed its forward pace. Seteth stared up at him, and Byleth felt a pang of… what was it again?

“ _Anxiety, Byleth. It’s fine, just say what I told you to say and let him go._ ”

Byleth nodded. “Seteth. If you ever have any concerns with your classmates, you can come talk to me about it, if you want.” Seteth’s green eyes narrowed for a moment, but soon after he shook his head, and stood up. “If that is all, Professor, I would enjoy a moment in the wind.” Byleth nodded. “Of course, Seteth. I will see you in fifteen minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both fics updating at the same time? The hell you say! Go check out the next chapter of A Matched Pair, too, if you'd be so kind. Link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890962/chapters/72362058
> 
> I realized that I want to talk a little bit about Seteth's dragon form in this fic. First off, the Four Saints have a little of that whole Four Symbols vibe to them imo (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Symbols). The colors don't match besides Flayn's, but don't worry about that - what's important is that Flayn is an Eastern dragon, Indech is a turtle (tortoise), Macuil is a griffon (bird), and Seteth is a beast (tiger). I don't have art of it, but I do have a color reference for it. It's burnt umber - note that the complimentary color for burnt umber is the same shade of blue I envision Flayn's dragon form to be, and that one of its split complimentary colors is the same shade of green as Sothis, Seteth, and Flayn's hair. Neat. (https://www.colorhexa.com/8a3324)
> 
> I expanded the dorm rooms to make slightly more sense. There's now a third dorm room before the first set of stairs on the second floor, to match the 3-5-5 arrangement of the first floor. Seriously, check the map and compare them some time, it's wack and I don't know why Intsys designed the dorms this way. I've also moved Lysithea's room from the ground floor up to this new room, in between Ingrid and Marianne. This means that there's an empty room near the greenhouse now, which is where I'll be stuffing Monica when she gets here. Since OG Seteth isn't in this fic, Byleth is no longer living in the student dorms. He's instead in the faculty/knight dorms, like a real adult. 
> 
> Seteth's pep talk from his dad makes reference to guards and stances detailed in the earliest known combat manual we have, Royal Armouries Ms I.33. It's from roughly the 1300s. Since I knew I wanted Seteth to fight in an archaic style, it was perfect.
> 
> Dunking on Makalov will never not be fun.
> 
> Uniform chat! So the men's uniforms for the principal cast of Three Houses are... Well, they're a mess. There's so little standardization, it drives me nuts! I ended up basing Seteth's look off of Felix with a couple changes. First, he wears the more standard black boots instead of Felix's white boots. He also doesn't wear his belt at an angle, and doesn't have a weird belt on his leg for no reason. And for obvious reasons, he can't wear his hair up openly.
> 
> Ermengarde of Hesbaye was the first Holy Roman Empress, crowned in 816 alongside her husband Louis the Pious, one of the sons of Charlemagne.
> 
> Ahhhhhhhhh it feels so good to write Sothis again. She's been gone for so long in A Matched Pair, and I've missed that little brain gremlin. And since Byleth in this fic is starting out from canon default, it gives me room to let Sothis be a little more sassy, too.


	3. Mockery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seteth goes to the library, Jeralt gets a check-up, and the Black Eagles soar into the mock battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things you do just to see  
> How bad they'll make you feel  
> Sometimes you try to freeze time  
> 'Til the slots are a blur of spinning wheels
> 
> But I am just a broken machine  
> And I do things that I don't really mean  
> \- Cry for Judas, the Mountain Goats

**\- 26th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

The rest of the week’s introductory classes had been far less potentially life-threatening, which suited Seteth just fine. He caught the professor staring at him a few times, but it was difficult to tell what the man was thinking, or if he even _was_ thinking for that matter. Perhaps that was just how he looked at people, and Seteth was making more of it than needed to be made. Even so, Seteth still thought he bore watching, even outside of his agreement to keep Edelgard updated on the former mercenary’s dealings with Rhea. He paused while pulling on his vest - that whole situation had come out of nowhere, and Seteth somehow hadn’t even _questioned_ it. Something about Edelgard managed to pierce through the cynical shell he had begun to develop over his time at Garreg Mach this far. 

That ought to have been alarming to him, but something about her felt so… familiar. In a way, she and their new professor had a similar draw to them, though he had no idea what they could _possibly_ share, a princess and a commoner mercenary. As he stepped out of his door and headed up towards the library, he tried to push those thoughts out of his mind - dwelling on them would do him no good, as it wasn’t as though his mother would be _any_ help if he mentioned feeling a strange connection to anyone. If he were lucky, she would decide that this was the proper time for a speech about interpersonal relationships. If he were unlucky… He shuddered, his mind wandering back to his father’s disastrous attempt to explain reproduction to him during the war.

He lost himself to a haze of memories, only snapping back to reality when he found the library doors tightly closed. Puzzled, Seteth knocked on the right-hand door firmly. He wasn’t exactly all that concerned with getting inside right now - he could always spend his time fishing, or training with the sword - but he _had_ promised Professor Byleth that he would at least give the Reason section of the library a perusal, and he knew that leaving a promise unfulfilled would gnaw at him and leave him unable to either unwind or focus. Besides, this whole situation could have been avoided if he had been better at controlling himself. Hiding his skills with magic was much easier than hiding his martial skills had been. He frowned, his mind wandering to events from two days prior…

_Byleth stood rigidly in the center of the training grounds. Several broken wooden blades littered the ground around him, as well as a broken lance and a cracked axe head. The mercenary himself was no worse for wear, and didn’t even appear to have broken a sweat from fighting the Black Eagles. For whatever reason, Seteth had been held to last - even Edelgard had gone before him, her unusually graceful axefaire a sight to behold as ever. Seeing their professor fight, though… It gave Seteth an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. His swordplay was stiff, brutal, and efficient, but something in the way he swung… It echoed within Seteth’s mind, calling to mind the one time he had seen Nemesis in battle. Though Nemesis had wielded that unholy abomination of a sword, there was something similar in his movements to how Byleth Eisner moved._

_Seteth swallowed hard, striding forward and gripping his blade tightly. To beat an efficient opponent, he needed to capitalize on speed, while letting a little more of his Nabatean strength bleed into his blows than he usually did. His anticipation for this fight was so great that he accidentally dropped into a lance ready position for half a moment before realizing his mistake, though if the professor had caught him, he did not seem inclined to ask about it. As expected, the professor stood with his sword loose, in a clearly Faerghan approximation of the more traditional fool’s guard Seteth had learned. His deep blue eyes studied Seteth’s form for a moment, then he shouted “Come!”._

_Seteth danced forward, twirling and weaving in an attempt to disguise where his strike would come from. He thought he had a good opening, but to his surprise, his blow was parried, and he earned himself a small rap on the shin as Byleth disengaged. Wincing, Seteth ran in again, this time launching into a flurry of shallow blows. Most of them were dodged or parried, but one managed to make contact with Byleth’s armored forearm. Immediately, the professor’s open hand closed on the blade of Seteth’s training sword, and he attempted to wrench it from Seteth’s grasp. Seteth was loath to lose a test of strength to a mere human, though, and began to pour energy from his unbeating heart into his arms. New strength kept the hilt of his sword firmly in place, while he channeled the energy in his off-hand into an admittedly rather poor approximation of one of Mother’s Wind spells. Off to the side, he heard Ferdinand gasp - evidently Seteth utilizing the power contained in his stone heart gave anyone nearby who bore the Crest of Cichol some sort of visceral sensation. That would be something to remember for later… As he hurled the spell at Byleth, he was satisfied to see half a moment of surprise on the mercenary’s normally immobile face._

_His satisfaction rapidly ended as he felt his blood churn again. Glancing down at his sword, he saw that same unknown Crest from the first day of class flaring to life above Byleth’s hand just before the mercenary snapped the blade in two. Flames roared to life in the hand that had formerly been locked on the blade of the sword, and Byleth shot a decent-sized fireball at the Wind spell, blasting through it and striking Seteth squarely in the chest. Not having prepared to take a magical strike from that close up, Seteth was flung backwards. His breath was torn from his lungs as he landed on his back, and for a moment he swore he saw stars. He returned to his senses a few moments later as warm healing energy flowed into his chest. With a groan, he lifted his head, only to find that the professor’s Fire spell had burned a hole straight through his vest and shirt, leaving his lower chest and upper abdomen exposed. The healing energy felt familiar, and he half expected to find his mother fretting over him, but instead found Linhardt von Hevring, a look of concentration on his face. The Crest of Cethleann shone above his hand._

_The young healer tutted. “You really ought to moderate how much strength your spells are going to have in sparring, Professor. I’m shocked Seteth doesn’t have any burns from that. What spell was that, anyway?” Seteth caught the professor staring off above Linhardt for a moment, and had the oddest sensation that the very air itself had grown… heavy. Then, he spoke. “It’s called ‘Elfire’. You’re right though, I should have been more cautious.” Walking over towards them, Byleth helped Seteth to his feet, and Seteth was surprised at how warm his hands were when they clasped the bare skin of his forearm. “My apologies, Seteth. I’m pleased that you thought to try a sneak attack with magic - I wasn’t even aware you_ **_knew_ ** _any. In the future, you would do well to better develop your skill in Reason magic. Over the weekend, please read up on the other types of Reason spells, both Anima magic and Dark magic. That Wind spell… It didn’t seem like it harmonized with you even a little. I’m surprised you were able to cast it at all in the heat of the moment.”_

Of course, he couldn’t exactly have explained “Ah, well, my sainted mother is a bit of a Wind sage in addition to being a healer without compare, and she taught me how to use that spell even in the chaos of a battlefield so that I wouldn’t get my head chopped off and turned into some bastard human’s warhammer”, so he had simply accepted the critique (and homework) without question. Edelgard and Hubert had shared some kind of hushed conversation as training ended, but he hadn’t given it thought in the actual moment. His main priority was getting back to his room and getting changed before someone who would report back on him to Flayn caught sight of him. Thankfully, he’d been successful.

Growing impatient, Seteth knocked again, this time also calling out “Hello? Tomas? Are you in there?” The elderly librarian had always seemed a kindly and conscientious sort, so Seteth figured that he must have stepped away if the library was closed off like this. This notion was proven wrong almost instantly, as Tomas opened the doors to the library, ever so slightly out of breath. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch when he saw Seteth standing there, but a quick smile followed shortly thereafter. “Oh, dear! Forgive me, my boy, forgive me. I was just taking a spot of tea. With it being so early in the day, I had assumed no one would be coming by… Please, come in!” He ushered Seteth inside, seeming quite contrite over the whole affair. 

Seteth wasn’t exactly sure where the Reason section of the library _was_ , but before he could ask, he picked up an odd scent. It smelled like bergamot, which he supposed made sense if Tomas had just had tea. However, he couldn’t see a tea set anywhere. Noticing that Seteth had stopped, Tomas approached him again, this time asking “Can I help you find something in particular?” Seteth pushed the tea from his mind - he had an objective here. “Yes, actually. I need to find books about Anima magic and Dark magic. It’s homework, of a sort.” Tomas nodded, likely consulting an internal map of the library’s layout. He clicked his tongue after a moment, then said “If you’ll wait here, I shall have a small selection of primers for you quick as a lark.” Seteth nodded, settling into one of the chairs to wait.

After a few moments, he heard footsteps approaching behind him. He turned his head to find Edelgard, shadowed as usual by Hubert. He nodded in greeting, and was surprised as the two of them sat down. The smell of bergamot seemed stronger than before - perhaps Edelgard had been enjoying a cup of it as well before coming here? She cleared her throat, bringing him back to the present moment. “Seteth, I’m glad that I was able to run into you. I actually had a question for you. Several, if you’d indulge me.” Seteth blinked for a moment, then nodded. Edelgard smiled faintly before speaking again. “Well, with the mock battle on Wednesday, Professor Byleth has asked me to come up with my recommendations for who the Black Eagles should field. Are you familiar with the format of this battle?”

Seteth shook his head - he had assumed that the houses would simply square off with one another in a large, chaotic melee. Edelgard spoke again. “Well, in order to reduce the chance of chaos in such a scenario, the initial mock battle between the three houses allows five students from each house to participate. The remaining students simply observe. Of course, the three professors also participate, but it’s generally considered improper for them to engage in the battle unless one entire house has been eliminated already.” Seteth nodded - that seemed like a higher number of students per house than there ought to be, for some reason, but he didn’t know _why_ he thought that. Realizing he couldn’t say that, he opted for silence, motioning for Edelgard to continue. Hubert huffed audibly at his gesture, but Edelgard didn’t seem to mind all that much. “To that end, our roster already has myself and Professor Byleth on it. I also plan to field Hubert, since the other house leaders are likely to be fielding their retainers as well.”

Seteth cocked his head to the side. “I know that Dedue, the tall man with white hair, is Prince Dimitri’s retainer, but I know next to nothing about the Golden Deer.” Edelgard regarded him for a moment, before nodding. “That’s right, I suppose you were waiting next to Dedue on the day we returned from the camping trip. Well, the Golden Deer’s leader is Claude von Riegan, if you were unaware. I believe he does not have a formal retainer, but since House Goneril has often supplied the Riegan grand dukes with retainers from their main family, Hilda Valentine Goneril is filling that role while they attend the academy. You’ve seen her before, I’m sure - I dare say she is the only person at the Academy with pink hair. Believe it or not, she, like myself, favors the axe.”

Seteth’s eyes widened for a moment - Hilda was even shorter than Edelgard, which was already saying quite a bit - before he responded. “I… see. Dedue also favors the axe, so we would do well to field those who are capable of using a sword.” Edelgard raised a brow. “Oh? I did not realize you two had discussed tactics.” Seteth felt a slight chill go down his spine, and he hurriedly shook his head. “It’s not that we… What I mean to say is that he carried himself like someone who is accustomed to fighting in heavy armor. Fodlani knights do often carry lances, but the equivalent forces of Duscur almost universally use axes. Or, er, used to use, I suppose I should say.” Edelgard chewed on this for a moment before nodding. “I see. Good assessment. Hubert?”

The dark mage stirred next to her. “The Duscurian does indeed use heavy armor and an axe. In this particular mock battle, he will not be allowed the former.” Edelgard hummed, closing her eyes as she thought. “I see, then. Seteth, I would like for you to take the field. As you mentioned, your sword skills will come in handy when it comes to the two of them, and having you available as a back-up mage allows us a greater degree of versatility than we might otherwise have.”

Hubert made a small, strained noise, before going very still. Seteth swallowed. “I see. If I may, I hope that you aren’t going to _rely_ on my magic. It is very rudimentary, and--” Edelgard cut him off with a raised hand. “Seteth. I don’t want to hear you talk yourself out of using a skill that you possess simply because it isn’t trained to your liking. I, like you, also have some rudimentary magical ability. I have not honed it either, but after our…” She searched for a more delicate word than the one which came to Seteth’s mind, “thrashing”, but evidently failed as she shook her head and moved on. “The Professor brought up some very valid points about versatility and utilizing all the tools available to you on the battlefield. I will be training my own Reason skills this year, and I would appreciate it if you did the same.”

Hubert scoffed softly. “If you were able to learn Brigidian in your youth, picking up a spell better suited to you by Wednesday should be no trouble at all…”

Seteth returned the glare that the dark mage began to level at him, but let it go with a sigh as Edelgard turned her attention on him fully. “I admit,” she said, “I am quite curious how you managed to learn it so well. Petra rarely loses her composure, and yet I’ve had to hear several times about how glad she is to have someone who speaks Brigidian in our house. To learn it when you were, apparently, younger… How old are you, again?”

Seteth took a steadying breath before answering. “I don’t believe I ever said. However, this was a bit of an… experiment, I suppose you might call it, by my father. We went to Brigid when I was but a child, visiting with some of my parents’ friends there. This was before the war, you understand. Anyway, my father had a theory that children learn foreign tongues faster than adults, and had my mother and I learn it at the same time. I was always better at speaking it than her, which I suppose proved him right…” He found himself lost as memories of spending time with his uncle Celtchar flashed across his mind. He returned to himself as Edelgard hummed to herself. “I see. I suppose, if you were a child before the Dagda and Brigid War, we must be rather close in age, then.”

Seteth nodded, hoping this was enough to get her off of this particular line of questioning. Edelgard leaned back in her chair, tenting her fingers before she spoke again. “Well, then. I suppose that we’ve gotten a bit off-topic. Let us return to the mock battle. I have a few others in mind, as well as the beginnings of a strategy…”

  
  


**\- 27th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

A knock at her door let Flayn know that her next appointment had arrived. With a small smile, she addressed the nurses who worked under her. “Maria, Lena, I can handle this last one myself. Go and enjoy an evening with your families, alright?” The two women nodded, and started gathering up their things as Flayn opened the door. Captain Jeralt Eisner stood on the other side, towering over her with a slightly sheepish look on his face. He stood aside as the nurses slipped out of the infirmary, and Flayn ushered him inside, grabbing for a clean file to use for Jeralt’s records. Despite his previous employment at the monastery (which Flayn recalled quite clearly), his records had managed to mysteriously disappear right alongside the man himself and the “corpse” of his and Sitri’s infant son. As soon as they were seated, Flayn shot Jeralt a severe look.

To his credit, he did not flinch from her. After another moment or two, she sighed. “You know, I really did like Sitri. I’m sorry about what happened to her… But what were you _thinking_ , Jeralt, stealing a newborn and running off into the world?” The large man sighed, and rubbed the back of his head. “That I wanted to get Byleth away from Rhea as soon as possible, I guess. You of all people should know that whatever happened to Sitri, it _wasn’t_ normal. I wasn’t about to let the child she traded her life for stay under Rhea’s thumb.” Flayn lowered her gaze, replaying memories of that awful day, nearly twenty-one years ago… 

“Truthfully, Jeralt, I know no more than you do. Rhea told me as much as she told you - none of us were allowed in the room with her for whatever she did. But, please, I don’t want to antagonize you. I have a job to do here, just as you do, and just as Byleth himself does, as well.” She paused, a smile coming to her face. “He looks so much like her…” Jeralt merely grunted in affirmation, but she could see a soft look in his eyes.

Clearing his throat, Jeralt fished for another topic of conversation. “You know, Flayn, you haven’t aged a day since I saw you last.” Flayn smiled, but after a moment her smile faltered. “I… Well, Jeralt, you haven’t either. Care to explain how you still look as though you are in your forties when we last saw one another twenty years ago?” As if she hadn’t had her suspicions when she could _smell_ Seiros’ blood in the man’s veins when she first arrived at the monastery… 

Jeralt fixed her with a serious look. “If I answer that, it stays between us. The last thing I need is for people to…” He blew out an exasperated breath. “Just… keep it a secret, alright?” She nodded, eager for Jeralt to finally share something - he was always a reluctant patient in her infirmary, only giving her absolutely necessary information and nothing more. She decided to sweeten the pot a bit for him, and spoke again. “In exchange… Why don’t I keep an eye on Byleth for you, when you’re off on your missions? It’s the least I can do.”

Jeralt chuckled, and shook his head. “Nah. By’s a grown man, he doesn’t need looking after anymore. Just treat him like you would anyone else, that’s all I ask.” She shrugged, waiting for him to continue. After a few moments, he scratched his forehead, and closed his eyes.

“There was a battle in what used to be House Eisner territory, up in the Kingdom. I was a mercenary back then, you understand, but I had managed to get myself involved in the battle - an attack on a column of the Knights of Seiros by some dissidents or another. Can’t remember who they were anymore, and the soil doesn’t remember their bones either. Anyway, one of the Knights had yelled something about ‘protect the Archbishop!’, which got my attention - the Archbishop would surely have some coin to spare for a mercenary who threw in with her guards without being asked to.” He chuckled darkly, and a shadow crossed his face.

“Took an axe to the chest. The guy had a clear shot at Rhea, and he took it. My body just… reacted. Before I knew it, I was facedown in the dirt, bleeding out, and Rhea… She did some… ritual, or other. Sealed my wound up almost immediately, and I managed to stand not an hour after almost dying. I felt like I could kick down the walls of Fhirdiad, or beat a horse in a footrace… Rhea recruited me into the Knights of Seiros, and after that, I found out that I now had a Crest, where I hadn’t had one before. Not just any Crest, though, but--”

“The Major Crest of Seiros”, Flayn supplied. Jeralt lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. When she stayed silent, he began speaking again. “I suppose I didn’t notice anything _off_ for a few years after that. My family had a tendency to go grey early, usually by the time we hit our early thirties, even late twenties. And yet, thirty came and went without a hair on my head changing color. Then forty. Then fifty. Then sixty…” He sighed, running a hand through his still very blond hair. “I’ve collected a few scars since then, and I noticed that I was starting to look a little older by the time I hit about ninety. I asked Rhea about it once, and all she told me was that it was a ‘blessing of the Goddess’. Back then, I still believed her every word.”

He stared her in the eye for a moment, evidently debating on telling her something further, as if she needed more information to know that Rhea had passed her Crest to Jeralt directly. The survivors of the War of Heroes had _sworn_ never to use that power again after seeing what the descendants of their beloved friends did with the power of Crests, but Rhea seemed to enjoy breaking her word these days… 

Jeralt spoke again, startling Flayn from her thoughts. “If I told you I was somewhere north of a hundred and thirty, would you believe me?” He looked deadly serious, so Flayn offered him some courtesy by simply nodding. “Things where Rhea is concerned are seldom as they appear. I hardly need to explain that to you, but… Yes, I do believe you. And as long as you don’t ask me how old _I_ am, I shall keep your secret.” He laughed mirthlessly, nodding. “Ain’t a damn person in the monastery who doesn’t have a few of those, is there?” Flayn shook her head. “Not one, Jeralt. Not one.”

  
  


**\- 30th of the Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180 -**

As the Black Eagles marched down to the field, Seteth found himself feeling anxious. It had been over a millennium since his last battle, and though his body knew what to do, his real worry was whether he would be able to retain his nerve or not. His was not the only worried face he saw, either. As expected, Bernadetta von Varley seemed to be on the edge of some sort of emotional breakdown. He pitied her, though ever since he had learned that she bore the Crest of Indech, he could not help but compare her to his uncle. He had even said as much to Morus, one evening earlier in the week. He had sighed, and simply said “I do not know fully what that girl has been through, but you need to be patient with her.” Seteth turned the phrase over in his head as they walked, curious about it, and about the girl his uncle spoke about.

His attention turned next to the nervous face of Dorothea Arnault. From what he had been able to gather without speaking to her directly, given her propensity to make his mind fog up and his chest feel tight, this would be Dorothea’s first real organized battle of any kind. She had made allusions to surviving when attacked before, but her lack of tactical experience confused him. It had only been when Professor Manuela had mentioned how Dorothea had “shone bright, even in the shadows of the stage” that he had managed to put two and two together. His respect for the former songstress had gone up immensely.

Ferdinand, Linhardt, Caspar, and Bernadetta broke off from their main group. Ferdinand and Caspar both looked quite disappointed to have been chosen to sit this battle out, but Professor Byleth had been quite insistent in both cases. Caspar seemed almost mutinously unhappy with the arrangement, but Seteth could easily see that Professor Byleth had made the right call - he needed to learn how to strategize and watch the field, rather than relying on explosive brute strength to solve every problem.

Once they reached their starting position, an open part of the field to the south of the other two houses, Byleth placed them all in a loose wedge-shaped formation. Seteth and Edelgard were on the outer edges, with Petra and Hubert next to them, respectively. Dorothea was to Petra’s right, forming one part of the inner corner with the professor himself. He and Dorothea were staggered back slightly from the others, where they could provide support as needed. Seteth scanned ahead, spotting the Blue Lions easily enough, and at least part of the Golden Deer.

Professor Hanneman stood among some ruins to the northeast of the Black Eagles’ position. Fanning outward from him, the Blue Lions fielded Prince Dimitri and Dedue, as Seteth had expected, as well as a mousey-looking young man with silver hair named Ashe, a woman named Mercedes who wearing some kind of shawl despite the heat that had already begun to creep in as summer approached, and Felix. Seteth almost did a double-take when he saw the swordsman, before feeling his blood surge a little. If he could just get over there… He and Felix could have a proper duel this time.

Searching westward, he spotted a few other students, though Claude and Hilda were not among them, nor was Professor Manuela. Seteth supposed that the three of them were either beyond or somewhere within the small forest that the Golden Deer students he could see had set up in front of. There was the man with the rose on his chest and the bad hair, who he believed was called Lorenz… Next to him was the young woman with fiery orange hair, Leonie. He knew her name for certain because she had shown up before class one day to challenge Professor Byleth to a duel, claiming it was for her honor as Knight-Captain Jeralt’s “first and greatest” apprentice. The Professor had seemed very confused by the whole affair, but he granted her a duel. The scowl Seteth saw on her face later that day was all the evidence he needed to know that it had not gone her way. Finally, standing at the edge of the treeline was someone he very much had not expected to see. “Cyril?!”, he cried out.

The other Black Eagles eyed him curiously, so Seteth began to explain: Cyril was an Almyran war orphan who had somehow ended up at Garreg Mach. Rhea had taken a liking to him when he was younger, and thus he had ended up as her ward. He had spent part of the year last year apprenticed to Shamir, who had taught him the bow, sword, and axe. Seteth grimaced at the end of his explanation, an expression that Byleth seemed to mirror in tone as he spoke. “Shamir seems like a formidable person. If he learned from her, we need to treat him as a decent threat in his own right. Remember that an arrow anywhere in the torso is enough to knock you out, everyone. Keep your wits about you.”

\---

Edelgard leaned on her axe next to Hubert. She could feel her entire body tremble with excitement. It was rare that she found herself caught up in the thrill of battle, but something about the current participants called out to something deep within her. Perhaps it was the overly-familiar Faerghan prince who bore the legendary brute strength of House Blaiddyd? Perhaps her mind had recognized a competitor in Claude despite his rather meager showing at Remire? Or perhaps the excitement was from her own forces? She focused on the thrumming of her heartbeat. It probably wasn’t Seteth - though he was obviously more than met the eye even to someone without the curse of knowledge she bore, she had never gotten this kind of sensation from him. That left only one other option… Professor Byleth. 

She opened her eyes, glancing back at Byleth. He was looking directly ahead, but caught her eye after a moment and nodded. Fighting back the urge to _laugh_ (how unbecoming of her!), Edelgard mastered her voice, and kept to an even tone. “Well, Professor. Let us see what you can do.” A subtle flinch at the corners of his mouth were all the indications he gave of even having heard her, but before she could make anything more of it, Knight-Captain Jeralt’s voice boomed out over the field. “Alright, everyone! Take your places! At the sound of this horn, the mock battle will begin!” He ran through a brief version of the rules again, but Edelgard couldn’t have paid attention if she had tried. Her blood was pulsing again. In the distance, a trumpet blared, and Edelgard called the charge.

According to the plan the professor had accepted from her, they were to swing north, engaging the visible members of the Golden Deer - Edelgard would take Lorenz, Petra would handle Leonie, and Dorothea and Hubert would harry Cyril to make sure he wasn’t able to get a clear shot on them while Seteth swept east to keep watch for any advanced charge from the Blue Lions. That was all well and good - putting the Gloucester heir in his place early was not only going to be immensely satisfying, but would also serve to impress upon him that the future Emperor was not to be trifled with. Still, she was rather upset about one of the things he had overruled. Rather than utilizing the tools at their disposal to eliminate the forest cover that Claude and Hilda were no doubt hiding in, Byleth wanted them to move east and challenge the Lions after they disposed of the first three Deer. While she was confident she could beat Dimitri in a contest of strength if it came down to using her real power, leaving a wily enemy at their back only served to make them easy prey. She had even told him as much during their planning session, to which he had responded rather cryptically with “Few plans ever survive contact with the enemy. Stay flexible, and we’ll do fine.”

Lorenz proved to be no trouble at all, just as expected. His lance work was sloppy, and did not at all match his prior boasting (“None of your _shallow_ tactics are required here, Claude! The three of us are more than a match for these!”). Edelgard could have pulled her blow, but she wanted to leave an impression that the womanizing Gloucester would not soon forget. She dipped and ducked through his clumsy jabs, reveling in the panic that bloomed on his face with every inch of ground she gained before she slammed the broad side of her axe into his chest. She pulsed the Crest of Seiros just as she made contact, so her blow sent him flying several meters away. He landed in a sprawl, dignity completely ruined. From the nearby treeline, Edelgard heard Claude’s voice call out to her “Well well, it looks like you were holding back against those bandits after all! Not that I blame you for hitting Lorenz extra hard. I _guess_ I’ve gotta do things the tough way now…”

Edelgard frowned. Claude had realized that she was holding back against Kostas and his ilk? That didn’t bode especially well - the mysterious heir to Grand Duke Oswald von Riegan had a much keener observational eye than she had thought at first. She would need to be cautious. Behind her, Dorothea cried out, and she whirled to find the songstress massaging a spot on her chest, a training arrow on the ground in front of her. At the same moment, she heard Hubert snarl at her side, and a voice she didn’t recognize (Cyril, given that it _sounded_ like a teenage boy) gasp in pain. Dorothea shook her head, and said “Agh, that little _shit_ … Well, sorry, everyone! Guess I’m out.”

Edelgard cursed silently in her head. They had thus far traded one of their six for two of the Golden Deer, as Petra was evidently having more trouble with Leonie than she had expected to. She searched for them, and spotted the pair locked in a fast-paced duel. Leonie was quite adept with her lance, which Edelgard realized grimly meant that Petra was at a severe disadvantage with her sword. She wasn’t likely to make it out anyway… Perhaps now would be a good time to take Leonie out of the game. She built up magical energy in her off hand, drawing the sigil for a simple Fire spell in the air. If she waited too long, her plan would be foiled… Petra would just have to forgive her. She flung the spell at the dueling pair, wincing as she realized that she wouldn’t be able to warn Petra without Leonie also hearing and mov--

“ _Petra, cúlaigh!_ ” Seteth’s voice carried across the field, and to Edelgard’s immense relief Petra dodged backwards. Leonie obviously understood no more Brigidian than Edelgard did, and her momentary confusion spelled her doom as Edelgard’s Fire spell caught her in the shoulder. With a string of curses, the orange-haired girl stalked off the field. Three down.

\---

From across the way, Petra gave Seteth an appreciative smile. He returned it, before letting a scowl settle in. Edelgard had had no way of getting Petra out of harm’s way, which either meant that she knew he would see her plan and warn Petra in Brigidian, or that she simply did not care. While it was theoretically _possible_ that she had taken his and Petra’s shared language into account, it somehow seemed unlikely to him. He tore his eyes from Edelgard with some effort, refocusing on the battlefield just in time to see a head of black hair appear around a tree. Smiling, Seteth brandished his sword and walked forward.

“Well, it appears we get to duel again, Felix. I hope you’re prepared!” Felix stepped out from the tree he’d taken cover behind, a smile on his face. “I’ve been waiting for this. Let’s--” Both of them stopped a few paces from the other, whirling around. Had Seteth been watching Felix, he would have spotted him cutting an arrow out of the air that Ashe had launched towards Seteth, but he was busy building up magical energy in his hand to counteract the Miasma spell Hubert had just launched. From his studies over the weekend, he knew that the best way to counteract Dark magic was equal force from Dark magic, or Light magic. He knew no Light magic, but if all Hubert was willing to expose to their rivals was a simple Miasma, well… _That_ much, Seteth had managed to learn. He launched his own ball of Miasma backwards, striking Hubert’s spell in mid-air. He winced as the Dark magic drew from his internal reservoir of energy, and felt a jolt of pain run down his casting arm. Ignoring it, he shouted at Hubert “Stay out of this!”, and was surprised to hear Felix shouting the same thing from behind him.

Hubert looked as though he were going to attack Seteth, but Byleth stepped between them. His eyes were cold, and he shook his head in disapproval not at _Hubert_ , but at Seteth. “Seteth… We’re going to talk about this later. You had better make sure you win this duel.” Hubert’s fingers twitched, but after a moment he nodded, stepping around Byleth to go after Ashe instead. The rest of the Black Eagles followed suit, leaving Seteth and Felix standing alone, swords drawn. Felix rolled his neck and his right shoulder, before dropping into a ready position. “Alright then. Enough talking… Let’s go!”

The two of them clashed in the open field, each putting quite a bit more power and ferocity into their blows than they had while sparring. Felix was somehow even faster now than he was before, and it was all Seteth could do to parry in time. He attempted to dodge and feint every now and again, but Felix’s onslaught was enough that he decided that the only way to gain ground on him was the direct approach. He shifted stances, whirling in for a series of quick strikes and jabs. Felix was able to parry most of them, but he felt a couple make glancing contact with the Faerghan swordsman’s arms. He had a couple welts on his own arms by now, so it was fair turnabout. 

They fought for several minutes, neither one daring to slow down for even a moment, but soon he could see that Felix’s stamina was flagging. His own was getting somewhat low as well, so he decided to end this quickly. Still wanting to give Felix a fighting chance, he looked the swordsman in the eye, and said “Crests?” Felix cocked an eyebrow briefly, before grunting affirmatively. The Crest of Cichol flared to life above Seteth’s right hand, mirrored by the Crest of Fraldarius above Felix’s. Their blows instantly gained more power, and Seteth felt his whole arm sting when he managed to block one of Felix’s strikes. He had a few more good blows in him, so he wound up for a powerful strike that he hoped would finish Felix off. Unfortunately, it seemed that Felix had the same idea, and their blades met between them. The force of the impact was enough to snap the blades of the wooden training swords, and he and Felix stared down at the empty hilts in their hands, dumbfounded. Then, demonstrating quick thinking, Felix hurled his hilt aside and punched Seteth square in the jaw.

He staggered back, bringing his arms up to protect his head as he absorbed a couple more blows from Felix. He saw an opening and landed a body blow on Felix, sending the raven-haired young man staggering back. Before Felix could mount a counterattack, Seteth pooled magical energy in his hands and launched a Fire spell at Felix. He was too exhausted from their bout to dodge out of the way in time, and fell to one knee, utterly spent.

The two of them stayed in place for a moment longer, before Felix panted out “I… I yield.” He hung his head for half a moment, before letting out a shaky laugh. “That was a hell of a fight. Didn’t take you for a mage, though.” Seteth laughed in kind, letting himself relax a little as he caught his breath. “I used magic out of desperation in a sparring match with Professor Byleth, and lost handily. As punishment, he told me I needed to develop my abilities.” Pausing for a moment, he extended a hand to Felix to help him to his feet. He could practically feel unused magical energy beneath the surface of Felix’s skin, and laughed again. “You know, you ought to think about learning a few spells yourself. Having that kind of versatility only serves to make you a stronger warrior, at least in my understanding.” Before Felix could respond, though, a third voice chimed in from behind the two of them.

“Oh, too true. Versatility is key in battle… So is reading the flow of things.” Seteth turned his head to look back at the speaker just as he felt a training arrow strike him in the back, right where it would pierce into a human’s heart. He winced, but kept turning, only to find Claude grinning at the two of them, looking none the worse for wear.

\---

Byleth surveyed the battle as the rest of the Black Eagles, sans Dorothea and Seteth, swarmed forward into the waiting ranks of the Blue Lions. Ashe proved no match for Hubert even at range, and surrendered after being struck with another Miasma spell. He coughed as he tried to make his way off the field, but Byleth whistled for him to stop. He walked up to the confused archer as Sothis gave him instructions. 

“ _Alright. Miasma attacks the lungs of an enemy, so that’s where you’ll want to target your healing. Envision a room filled with smoke, and as you pour energy in, see yourself opening the doors and windows to chase the smoke out. Breathe, and focus. You can do this._ ” 

Grateful for her instruction, Byleth channeled healing energy into the Blue Lions archer, and after a few moments, his coughing stopped entirely. He flashed Byleth a smile. “Oh, wow, thank you, Professor! That spell did a number on me, so I really appreciate the help.” Byleth felt… “ _Sothis, which one is the warm feeling in the base of the chest again? Frustration? That doesn’t seem right…_ ” 

“ _Satisfaction, Byleth_.” 

Ah, right. He felt the corners of his lips twitch, and he nodded. “I would hate to see you injured by a spell like that in a mock battle. I’ll need to talk to Hubert about what is and isn’t appropriate to use in this kind of situation… Get some rest, in the meantime.” The silver-haired archer nodded, walking away with a smile still on his face. Byleth watched him walk for a little bit, then turned back to the battle. Somehow, the battle was now two on two - Hubert had fallen, as had Mercedes, leaving Edelgard facing off with Dimitri, and Petra ducking and dodging around Dedue. The tall man was at a severe disadvantage due to Petra’s speed, and soon she managed to land a solid blow in the middle of his back. With a grunt of acknowledgement to her, he yielded and walked off the field.

Meanwhile, Edelgard and Dimitri’s duel had reached a level of intensity he hadn’t expected to see. He noticed that the both of them had called on their Crests’ destructive power, and judging from the thunderous sounds it made every time their weapons clashed, all it would take was one solid blow to put either of them down. Sothis materialized next to him, watching the duel with exaggerated boredom. “ _My goodness, it is as if she’s forgotten all about her magic! That little princeling might hit like a giant wolf, but I strongly doubt he’s flame-resistant._ ” Byleth hummed in acknowledgement.

Sothis shouted at the top of her lungs, as if it would do any good. “ _COME ON, PRINCESS! WHERE’S YOUR FIRE?!_ ” 

Suddenly, Edelgard stiffened, and Byleth felt his blood churn ever so slightly. Edelgard launched a particularly strong strike, knocking Dimitri backwards and off-balance. Not hesitating to capitalize on it, Edelgard readied a Fire spell in her off hand, hurling it at him and striking just behind it with her axe. The spell and axe caught Dimitri in the chest and shoulder, sending him to the ground. He propped himself on one knee and his training lance, and shook his head. “I must yield. Well fought, Edelgard!” Byleth knew that he ought to go take care of Professor Hanneman now, but something stopped him. Sothis was very still, staring very hard at Edelgard. He raised an eyebrow at her, and Sothis shook her head, flinging her mane of green hair about. “ _I cannot explain it, but… Just now, did you… Did you perhaps feel something odd, too?_ ” He nodded, not knowing how to describe it.

Sothis disappeared, saying that she needed to rest, and Byleth took that as his cue to do his professorial duties. This mystery could wait. He dashed off towards Hanneman, noting the look of fear on the older man’s face with an additional jolt of satisfaction. He drew his sword as he neared Hanneman, and the older man pulled free a small magic staff from his coat. “Well, then, Professor… Shall we?”

He nodded, and Hanneman immediately unleashed a barrage of arrow-like magical projectiles - Sagittae, if Byleth was correct. He dodged them easily enough, drawing close quickly and striking Hanneman on his left and right shoulders in succession. The grey-haired man fell back, wincing in pain. After a moment, he slumped his shoulders ever so slightly. “My goodness! The gulf between our combat abilities is quite evident to me, Professor. I should rather like to end this day without any additional aches or bruises, though, so I yield. Good luck with Manuela!” 

Byleth nodded, and ran off without another word.

\---

Edelgard felt a great sense of triumph. Dimitri had proven more of a difficult opponent than she had expected, and her body screamed in protest after she invoked the Crest of Flames, but the sheer _power_ that flowed through her almost made it hard to think. She could have sworn she heard a voice telling her to use her Fire, and to her satisfaction, she found that the Crest of Flames enhanced her magical prowess in addition to her physical prowess. Professor Byleth was off dealing with Hanneman, and with any luck he would finish off Manuela as well. That just left Claude and Hilda, who to the best of her knowledge were somewhere hidden in the nearby fore--

An arrow whizzed past her face, passing close enough for Edelgard to feel the wind from it. She turned her head, shouting for Petra to take cover. She barely had time to react as a flash of pink filled her vision - Hilda was on her, swinging her axe in a tight arc. Edelgard dodged out of the way of the brutal swing and prepared to return it with one of her own when another arrow flew past her, this time brushing her shoulder. She let her eyes flicker over to Claude, who was standing lazily in the middle distance, another arrow nocked and three more hanging from his hand. She jumped back again, trying to keep Hilda between her and Claude. She had limited success, though Hilda was one of the few people Edelgard was actually taller than, so she had to crouch lower than she normally would.

Soon, thankfully, Petra ambushed Claude, having circled around while he was busy with Edelgard. He abandoned his bow, drawing a sword to match Petra, and the two of them began a fast-paced duel. Edelgard was punished for having her attention elsewhere, though, as Hilda rammed her shoulder into Edelgard’s chest. She gasped for breath, and was unable to stop Hilda from landing a strong strike on her shoulder. In pain and out of breath, she fell to one knee, but managed to dodge out of the way of Hilda’s next blow. She slung her leg out, tripping Hilda, and prepared another Fire spell. From the way the magic wavered in her hand, she knew it was her last one for a while, but she was the heir of the Imperial throne. She would _not_ lose here, mock battle or not. 

To make sure Hilda was where she wanted her to be, Edelgard whipped her axe at Hilda as a projectile, releasing her spell a moment later when Hilda had already committed to dodging. The Fire spell struck her, and she sprawled onto the ground, groaning. Edelgard was near-dead on her feet, but she pushed forward as fast as she could, and thrust her knee against Hilda’s shoulder. “Yield!”, she barked out. Hilda swore under her breath, before letting out a pained “Fine! You win. Sheesh!” Satisfied, Edelgard fell backwards, and knew no more.

She woke to gentle, warm energy flowing into her. Opening her eyes, she saw Byleth bent over her. Hubert and Seteth were hovering behind him, and Hubert’s face told her that she must have overdone it a little bit. She groaned, and managed to ask “Did we win?” Byleth’s face twitched, though she didn’t know what exactly that signified. After a moment, he said “Yes. Though it seems that very few of you know how to work as a team. When class resumes next week, we’ll be working on that. But for now, enjoy the victory.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and for a brief moment it almost seemed as though he had _smiled_. It must have been her imagination, though, as it seemed that the professor did not know how to express emotion at all, if he even had any. She nodded, and sat up with assistance from Linhardt, who had joined the rest of the Black Eagles on the field. 

Byleth turned around, and called out “Hubert! Seteth! Fall in.” The two of them obeyed without delay, as the voice the professor was employing left no room for argument. It almost sounded like one of the Imperial generals barking out orders, and she shuddered at the comparison. He spoke again, quiet enough that only those close by would hear. “You’re both talented fighters, but you have no concept of how to work with each other, and both of you did things that put the Black Eagles in an unnecessarily tight spot. As such, I am putting the both of you on stable duty together for the next moon. You are going to learn to work together one way or another - if you’d prefer learning to do so without horse shit being involved, show me that you’re capable of not only working together, but respecting one another. Dismissed.”

Edelgard grimaced. Hubert being put on stable duties was inconvenient for her, and was likely to be downright miserable for him… But it would afford him some opportunities to observe Seteth. In the distance, she heard a trumpet blare, and Jeralt’s voice rang out over the field again, obviously magically enhanced to cover as wide a distance as possible. “The winner by knockout of this year’s first mock battle is the Black Eagle house!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly Seteth, everyone knows Fire beats Wind. Did you even play the GBA games, god.
> 
> Byleth knowing spells outside of what's common for Fodlan is a really good trope I like a lot. It also feels like something that would appeal to a mercenary. "So, this 'Elfire' is like Fire, but better? Alright, sounds good."
> 
> I changed the mock battle's format because, surprise surprise, I've decided to expand the other houses' rosters. Cyril is a Golden Deer now, and (as we'll see in later chapters) Hapi, rather than being an Ashen Wolf, is a Blue Lion. Hapi's backstory has been changed a tiny bit to better fit this. She hasn't been forced underground because Alois fought so hard to keep her above-ground (overriding Aelfric in the process), and she has a bit of a bond with him because of it. She can't summon monsters anymore because Rhea placed some sort of magical seal on that ability. As for Cyril, his backstory is basically the same, but he has been aged up a little so that Lysithea is still the youngest member of the house - Cyril in this fic starts out at 16. He's still had some training with Shamir, but she decided that she wasn't suited to having an apprentice, and asked Rhea if she would allow him to join the Officer's Academy as a late entrant this year so that he could keep honing his skills. Since Seteth and Hapi were already in the other two houses at this point, and she has a soft spot for him, Rhea put Cyril in the Golden Deer. 
> 
> The theory Seteth mentions is a real thing, by the way - young children's brains are much, much more adaptable than even older children's brains (much less adults'), which allows them to pick up a second or even third language with almost no effort. Children who become bilingual at an early age are typically fluent in both languages so long as they keep up with both of them through their teenage years, which is one of several points where the brain pares down unused neural connections and strengthens often-used ones.
> 
> So, you probably noticed I name-dropped some other rando while talking about Seteth's family vacation to Brigid. Let's talk about Brigid's Spirits for a moment. While I've seen several fanfics turn the Spirits into various other beings, my own take on them generally speaking is to assume that the spirits were also Nabateans, especially from Petra talking about Brigid's legends about spirit heroes when Byleth undergoes apotheosis. The ones Petra mentions specifically are the Spirits of Earth, Spirits of Water, Spirits of Wind, and of course, the (singular) Flame Spirit. Huh, that's *weird*. I wonder if there just so happens to be an Earth Dragon, Water Dragon, Wind Dragon, or Flame Dragon... Oh wait, that's Seteth, Indech, and Macuil. Meanwhile, the Flame Dragon Sign is linked to the Crest of Daphnel. In my other fic, A Matched Pair, I gave a proper name to the Nabatean whose heart forms the Crest Stone embedded in Luin - Celtchar, after Celtchar mac Uthechar, the historical wielder of the Lúin spear. 
> 
> Cúlaigh is the imperative form of an Irish word that means "retreat", or "move back". I'm not the only one to think Brigidian is just Gaeilge in some form, am I?
> 
> The bit about Seteth feeling pain when he uses Dark magic - I can't remember where I read this, or even if it was canon or from someone's fic, but I'm quite taken with the idea that Dark magic requires something like life force to use, either someone else's taken from them (usually unwillingly) or the caster's own. Seteth experienced pain from using a Dark spell but doesn't know why he did... Almost as if the primer he was given wasn't quite up to snuff. How odd...


End file.
